


Weighing Incentives

by Garden_Beast



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon Typical Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I'm mad there's no season 4 so I'm writing my own, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn, Slowly building trust, Some Humor, cannibalism but no one's surprised at that, some voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 90,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garden_Beast/pseuds/Garden_Beast
Summary: After their plunge off of the cliff, Will has begrudgingly agreed to run away with Hannibal to France. They spend two years together in a delicate equilibrium: Will acts as Hannibal's keeper, ensuring that he doesn't murder and cannibalize anyone, while Hannibal plays a long game of romance and seduction.This all goes to hell when Paris is confronted with a vicious new serial killer.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 489
Kudos: 739





	1. New Beginnings

**Rouen, France**

  
  


Bread, fresh from the neighborhood boulangerie; its tough crust crunched under Hannibal’s serrated bread knife, before quickly giving way to its airy centre. Eggs, scrambled on low heat, cooking to perfection in their cocktail of vegetables and spices. Sausage, sizzling in its own pan; coffee, dripping divinely out of its home in the espresso machine. All of these elements made for a perfect concoction of scents, an olfactory symphony of Hannibal’s own creation-- it was easily one of the most satisfying parts of cooking, second only to--

The telltale creak of Will’s door told Hannibal that it was nearly time to serve breakfast. All components prepared, Hannibal scooped the finished eggs and sausage onto their respective plates, buttered the steaming bread, and walked the finished plates to the breakfast nook, nestled between a picture window and one of Will’s bookshelves. “Good morning,” Hannibal said in passing, returning to the kitchen to grab silverware, coffees. “How did you sleep?” 

Will grunted, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses. He crumpled onto his chair, placing his head in his hands. Only one of them was a morning person, Hannibal had learned, but watching Will struggle to full attention added to the serenity of the atmosphere. For all the time they’d spent together, Hannibal was still surprised at the sense of content that coursed through him, watching Will at his most vulnerable. Will, as if on queue, let out a long yawn. 

Finally, the beast awakened. “About as well as usual,” Will admitted, voice gravelly with sleep, hand grasping for his morning coffee. “When do we need to be getting going?” 

“It’s at four-- if we leave by two, we should be able to make it on time,” Hannibal answered, pulling out his chair and sitting down with all the elegance of a ballerino. “As always, you don’t have to come. You’re very welcome, but it’s hardly mandatory for you.” 

Will raised a silent eyebrow, ending that particular thread of conversation where it started. Hannibal had expected as much, but that didn’t stop the small thrill of satisfaction anyway. “I never thought of you as an avid art history fan,” Hannibal added, lips curling into a small smile. 

“I’m more a fan of keeping Paris safe,” Will replied, wit as knife-sharp as ever. “I prefer pork sausage, anyway.” For punctuation, he stabbed his fork into his sausage, raising it to his mouth and taking a bite, eyes locking onto Hannibal’s. The thrill returned, this time stronger. Hannibal’s smile grew-- as much as Will saw himself as a jailer, Hannibal saw him as a puppy, clinging to its owner. “This is good, though. Did you use more cumin this time?” 

Ah, the satisfaction of Will’s palate evolving. The way Will’s pupils dilated just slightly at the sight of breakfast; the way his lips curled around his fork; how his molars chewed, how his body digested Hannibal’s creation, turning it into sheer energy, turning into infinitesimal parts of Will himself-- the sight was rapturous. “I did, yes-- look how your sense of taste has improved.” 

Will only snorted, before finishing off his coffee much like he’d finish a shot; he took a few more bites of breakfast, before taking his plates to the kitchen and washing them off.

“Do you have any plans before two?” Hannibal asked. “I was thinking of doing some sketching at the botanical garden, if you’re interested in joining me.” 

Will turned away from his dishes, leaning onto the countertop. “Not sketching people anymore?” For the two years they’d spent together in Rouen, Will had known Hannibal to have a fascination with human anatomy, human expressions. Hell, half of the artwork hanging on the walls was a Lecter original, almost always a figure study. None of them, however, were among the enormous collection of sketches Hannibal had made of Will-- that much Will had insisted on. 

“I’m thinking of branching out into botany,” Hannibal answered, before continuing, “And there are likely enough people at the garden for live sketches, no?” 

Will narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Including me?”

“If you come with me, then yes. I’d hardly be against drawing you in profile, especially with a verdant background. Actually, it could make for a pleasing use of color--” 

“You’re gonna have to cut down on your portrait collection at some point,” Will pointed out, exhuming this old topic from its grave. “We don’t have room for another sketchbook.” They didn’t have room for anything, here in their cottage; it was filled to the brim with books, fly-fishing equipment, cookware, _clothes_. Good God, Hannibal loved to shop for clothes. Will had no idea where he summoned all of his money from, but surely he’d spent tens of thousands of euros on clothes alone. 

The appearance of a smirk on Hannibal’s face told him he’d walked straight into a trap. “We could always move. There are a few spacious apartments I’ve seen in Paris--” 

“No. Absolutely not.” Hannibal was already hard enough to pin down in this town when he went shopping-- there was no way Will would be able to keep track of him in a city of two million people. “We’re not discussing this again.” 

But Hannibal wouldn’t be deterred-- “It would certainly shorten my commute. No more trains three days per week; no more hour-long train rides.” This was a sore spot for Will, and he knew that. The trains were usually filled to the brim with people, people with problems and ambitions and concerns and wishes, and every train ride left him feeling nauseous with overstimulation. But Paris was hardly any better, when it came to crowding... “We could always live in a suburb,” Hannibal suggested, as if reading Will’s mind, “And return here on the weekends. We could get a car, even, if you’d like.” 

  
  


Will hesitated a moment-- this was where Hannibal knew he’d only have to push. “We could just get a car now. That would solve the train issue,” Will countered. 

“Yes, but it would still be over an hour both ways. Do you really want to be cooped up for two hours per day?” Hannibal stood up from his seat, walking to Will and tucking an errant curl back into place. “I’d hate to see a tiger trapped in confinement. You deserve more than a metal cage for hours at a time, Will. We both do.” If Hannibal’s hand overstayed its welcome, neither of them mentioned it. 

Will was the first to pull away. “Am I a tiger in this metaphor?” 

“A beast known as much for its beauty as it is for its brutality?” Hannibal parried, before lowering his voice. “Have you ever seen a tiger trapped in a cage, Will? The way it paces?” 

At this Will’s jaw tensed, eyes narrowing into real suspicion. “It’s caged for people’s safety, Hannibal.” He was changing the metaphor, but Hannibal seemed to catch his meaning well enough. 

“It’s caged because it was taken away from its habitat,” Hannibal smiled, “But perhaps it’s grown docile. Domesticated.” Hannibal still spoke softly, his eyes taking on a gentle expression. His hand returned to Will’s head, this time cupping his cheek. “There are many ways to be content.” 

Every so often Hannibal would give Will this treatment; the hand on his face, the soft voice, the eyes that searched Will’s face with an expression of near hopelessness. It always reminded Will of Dr. Du Maurier’s conviction that Hannibal was in love with him, somehow, and this was no exception. “Let me think about it.” Will was the first to extricate himself from the conversation, and the two went about their day. 

The botanical garden was nothing short of gorgeous. It was a whole sprawling ground of rose bushes, labyrinthine and freshly cut; there were sculptural topiaries, lovely floral arrangements, and the wondrous closed biosphere, tropical and lush. Hannibal had made himself comfortable on a bench, and Will sat back with him, watching. Listening. The air was warm; a little stuffy, even, and there was a gentle whirring from nearby insects that was almost hypnotic. He could fall asleep like this. 

“You seem more tired than usual,” Hannibal noted, drawing broad strokes of his pencil across his page. “Why do you think you’ve been having trouble sleeping?” 

Will didn’t answer, at first. He watched a few people pass by, talking; listened to insects hum; it was comforting, somehow, to have this white noise around him. “Pretty sure you’re not my psychiatrist anymore, Dr. Ingram.” 

“Well, Mr. Ingram,” Hannibal responded with his signature barely-there smile, “Is it not enough to care about my partner’s wellbeing?” His smile widening almost imperceptibly, he leaned toward Will and muttered in his ear, just above a whisper, “Or should I allow my jailer to exhaust himself? It would certainly make my escape easier, wouldn’t it?” 

Will didn’t look at him, only staring forward. “That depends. Does the prisoner want to leave?” 

They both knew the answer to that. Instead of dignifying Will’s question with a response, Hannibal set his pencil aside and curled his fingers around Will’s own. His lips nearly touched Will’s ear when he said, “You could always incentivize him to stay.” 

Ah, Hannibal had crossed a line. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it, however, not even when Will stood up and rolled his shoulders. There were lovely blotches of red at his throat-- not for the first time, Hannibal wanted to lick them. “I told you I’d consider moving,” Will retorted, and Hannibal could see the excuses and denial already at work in his little jailer’s thoughts. “Just-- give me time to think about it.” 

“Naturally.” Hannibal took Will’s hand in his own, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles. 

Will tugged his hand away almost immediately, face aflame. “No one’s around. You don’t have to do this.” He paused, running his hand through his hair, by now a familiar nervous tic to Hannibal. “I’m-- um. Taking a walk.” 

“I’ll see you soon.” Another victory for Hannibal. He’d always been good at the long game. 

  
  


___

  
  
  


**Somewhere off the Atlantic coast, Maryland**

The ocean took ages to meet them, but as sure as the sun rises, it met them. Will had pushed them both off the cliff with the intent of death, that much was sure-- but Hannibal had other plans. He grabbed onto Will’s shoulders, holding him close; if they were going to injure themselves against the liquid concrete of water from a great height, they’d might as well do it together. 

Pain. Submersion. Disorientation. Air bubbles, floating up past them. Hannibal held his breath, but Will seemed determined enough to die that all the air in him burst out in an enormous bubble. For these several seconds, under water-filtered moonlight, Will had given up. 

How fortunate that Hannibal had enough will to live for the both of them. Hauling Will up to the surface, he landed a swift punch to Will’s gut, forcing a wrecked gasp out of him. There-- he was breathing again. “What--” Will choked out, barely able to grasp his surroundings, “How--” 

“Just swim,” Hannibal ordered, shutting down any conversation: they had swimming to do. 

Once they reached the shore they both walked, haggard, onto the beach; Will fell to his hands and knees, gasping. Hannibal placed a quick pair of fingers to his throat, feeling his pulse-- fast, weak-- before hauling Will back to his feet by the shirt collar. “Did you think we were done?” 

Will, gaining his footing, only sighed. Of course they weren’t done. Gripping Will’s wrist, Hannibal started the long trek off the beach. 

They stumbled, and even occasionally groaned, but eventually the duo reached the home of Bedelia Du Maurier without incident-- there was a reason why Hannibal had chosen his hilltop cottage, so perilously near to Bedelia’s own comfortable suburb. A touch of lockpicking, several steps through the back door, and there-- they had shelter, water, and most certainly a meal waiting for them. It only took limping into the kitchen to find their meal, hands trembling as she sipped at her wine. “Hannibal,” she nodded, before her lips curled into the slightest smirk. “Will. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Will, for all his usual wit, only slumped against a wall and gave a quick groan; Hannibal, never without words, replied, “We’ve come for dinner-- we’re sadly underprepared, however. Would you mind if I used your medicine cabinet?” 

Du Maurier arched one elegant brow. “And if I say no?” 

“I would be forced to persuade you.” 

That was enough convincing for Bedelia. She was quick to grab a small suture kit, along with paper towels and alcohol. “Will this do?” 

Hannibal eyed his tools and gave a quick nod, before shrugging off his shirt and starting work. “You wouldn’t have any more alcohol, would you?” He requested, opening a drawer and pulling out a box of gloves with unsettling familiarity. Once those were on, he started pouring a large splash of the alcohol into his bullet wound, before gently pulling out his viscera for inspection. Ah, as he expected-- his kidney and large intestine took the brunt of the damage. 

Dr. Du Maurier, for all of her quiet elegance and experience with Hannibal, looked pale in the face-- Will, meanwhile, was outright green. “How’re you not passing out with pain right about now?” Will asked, clutching at his shoulder-- somehow, he managed to forget about the more worrying wound on his face. 

“I believe that the term is ‘Mind over matter,’” Hannibal answered simply, cutting out his injured kidney and suturing it with deft hands. “Let’s both be thankful that I was a surgeon. Dr. Du Maurier, would you please put ice on Will’s face and shoulder? He’ll need treatment next.” 

For thirty tense minutes, Hannibal operated on himself, before finally replacing his organs in the right spot. Will, through most of this, looked away; there was only so much blood he could reasonably stomach in one night, and as it was his mouth and esophagus were already filled with his own. “There. Not ideal, but it should do for now,” Hannibal finished, with some final suturing of his midsection, and a great deal of bandaging. “Now, then. Will. Can you open your mouth?” 

Instead of opening his mouth, Will just gave Hannibal an incredulous look. “Really?” They were doing this? 

“Would you prefer that I start with the wound on your shoulder? You’ll need treatment one way or another.” Hannibal peeled off his bloody gloves, snapping on a new pair. Tacitly implied was that Will was going to receive treatment regardless of any protests. Understanding this, he sighed and peeled away his blood and ocean-soaked shirt. 

“Just get it over with.” 

“Of course,” Hannibal smiled, already reaching for the alcohol. “Dr. Du Maurier, would you please hand me a clean dish towel?” 

Dr. Du Maurier, feeling the weight of inevitability on her shoulders, retrieved the dish towel. “Anything else, Dr. Lecter?” 

“No, thank you,” he answered, rolling the dish towel gently in his hands, “This should do for now.” With equal delicacy he pressed the rolled dish towel into Will’s mouth. “Bite down on this when you need to.” 

Will nodded, resignation etching frown lines onto his face. Lying prone and indisposed, Hannibal couldn’t help but admire this new version of Will: completely at his mercy, trusting the expertise of Hannibal’s hands. Was this what he was like when receiving treatment for his evisceration? The thought was compelling; even more so when his eyelids fluttered as Hannibal poured the first spill of alcohol on Will’s bleeding shoulder. Tears fell from his eyes prodigiously; he bit down hard on the dish towel, causing his cheek wound to start bleeding anew. He was beautiful like this; a sculpture of muscle and suture, blood and pain. Every few seconds he would jolt, or moan miserably through the dish towel, and a part of Hannibal wanted to pull it out altogether and ravage Will’s mouth with his own. He’d probably taste blood. Eventually Will’s eyes began to roll back, and Hannibal could feel him losing consciousness; he paused his work on Will’s shoulder and tapped at his face. “Stay with me, Will. We’re almost done with your shoulder.” 

In response, Will let out a miserable whimper that would live in the confines of Hannibal’s mind for the rest of his life. His pained expression, the way his muscles tensed-- Hannibal wondered if he couldn’t capture Will on paper, just like this. In time, Hannibal completed the suturing of Will’s skin, and bandaged his shoulder with expert hands. 

Next, the cheek: softly, Hannibal pulled the dish towel from Will’s mouth. With equal tenderness he inspected the inside of it-- no broken teeth, the soft and hard palates were untouched; all that needed treatment was the cheek. Tilting his patient’s head to the side, Dr. Lecter cleansed and sutured the inside of Will’s mouth, index finger stroking Will’s throat every time he made a sound. His boy behaved beautifully. 

In time, Hannibal finished his treatment; he cleaned Will’s face and shoulder a final time, minimizing the chance of infection. Next, he let Will lie back on the kitchen floor, panting, while Hannibal licked every drop of Will’s blood from his gloves, savoring the taste. He gave Dr. Du Maurier a silent look as he did so, almost challenging her to speak up in opposition. She did not. 

Smart girl. “Would you be so kind as to lend us a place to stay?” Hannibal asked, more out of politeness than anything else; they both knew there could only be one answer. 

Dr. Du Maurier wasn’t fool enough to deny her killer a night’s respite. “Naturally. You know where the guest bedrooms are-- will you be needing two?” 

“My patient will need supervision, I believe.” Hannibal brushed a curl of hair away from Will’s forehead. The pallor of his skin and the misery of his expression reminded Hannibal of Christ at his crucifixion. Careful not to rip his own stitches, Hannibal lifted the insensate Will into his arms and walked to Bedelia’s finest guest bedroom. 

Supervised by his doctor, Will Graham slept through the night. 

The sun was well into the sky before Hannibal deemed it appropriate to awaken his patient, checking his pulse at his throat. It was almost a shame, really; he likely wouldn’t have very many opportunities to see Will this vulnerable. He ran his finger tips over Will’s sternocleidomastoids with particular relish, noting them twitch in reaction to his touch. If Will were still deep in REM sleep, Hannibal would have considered kissing them. Instead, as expected, Will’s face scrunched into a closed-eyed scowl, and Hannibal knew he was awake. “How did you sleep?” 

At Hannibal’s voice, Will’s eyes snapped open, realization dawning on his face. “Shit,” he whispered, closing his eyes again, before groaning-- surely he regretted speaking the moment he remembered his wounds. 

“Surgery without anesthetic is quite painful,” Hannibal acknowledged, running a comforting hand through Will’s hair, “It appears we’ve both been reforged through the same crucible.” 

At first, Will didn’t respond-- he knew Hannibal meant more than slapdash surgery. But the doctor let the silence linger, and finally Will managed, “A crucible heated by the fire of a dragon.”

“And cooled by the Atlantic.” 

Will gave a small, rueful laugh at that, staring up at the ceiling. “I thought I’d finally be able to stop you.” He paused. “Me. All of it.” He closed his eyes with a dry gulp. “I thought I’d dreamt most of yesterday.” 

Oh? “Was it a good dream?” 

Will opened his eyes again, turning as best as he could to Hannibal. “You have no intention of going back, do you?” 

Smiling, Hannibal arched his brow. “Back to living under the thumb of Alana Bloom?” 

“What do you intend to do, then?” 

That was the question, wasn’t it? If he wouldn’t return to his cage at the Baltimore Hospital, then where could he go? After a moment of silence, Hannibal returned, “France, perhaps. You could join me.” Will didn’t need to speak. The confusion and skepticism on his face was all Hannibal needed to know. “Look at what fate has given us,” Hannibal continued, “Giving us another chance at leaving this place. Another chance at life altogether.” 

“I already have a life.” Will’s eyes returned to the ceiling. 

“True,” Hannibal conceded, “One dogged by distrust and suspicion. The FBI will be on your tail for the rest of your life.” 

“Was that a dog joke?” asked Will, using levity to deflate the tension.

Hannibal ignored him. “Your wife and son already suspect you, don’t they?” He took the stiffening in Will’s expression and body to be a ‘yes.’ “It won’t be the same if you go back, Will. They’ll think we conspired my escape together.” 

This was true. There was no denying it-- nearly every colleague of Will’s had been suspicious of his and Hannibal’s relationship, and when the news broke out he wouldn’t be able to keep Molly and Walter from it. From the prying eyes, or the cold stares, or the suspicion. Freddie Lounds would tear at his family like a vulture. Walter already looked at him differently, ever since The Red Dragon attacked them… Using his good arm, Will rubbed at his eyes. Who even knew if Hannibal would target them next. 

Sensing a moment of weakness, Hannibal pushed further. “Instead of Dr. Bloom’s prison, we could have something different. A gilded cage of your own creation. All you would need is yourself.” Hannibal took Will’s hand in his own. “And your captive.” 

Will could feel the intensity of Hannibal’s stare boring into the wounded side of his face. Still, it sounded… unreal, in a way. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t kill anyone?” 

“Not without your consent.” 

Will finally looked into Hannibal’s eyes. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” Hannibal’s eyes gleamed in the morning light. “I don’t make promises lightly-- and I keep every one I make.” He’d have to put killing Dr. Bloom off, but he could wait. Anticipation would only make the satisfaction of strangling her even better. 

Will went silent. A minute passed by-- two. Fortunately, Hannibal was comfortable with these silences; it gave him time to watch Will’s face, take in every twitch of thought. Every hill and valley of his visage. Hannibal would have to draw another portrait of him. 

Finally, Will spoke. “Let me think about it.” 

Hannibal couldn’t help his smile. “Naturally.” 

  
  


__

  
  


**Rouen, France**

It took a mere twenty minutes for Will to return, and in the meantime Hannibal had filled in the beginnings of a lovely tropical ivy in his sketchbook. “Welcome back.” 

Will, in his time away, had procured a sandwich. “It’s prosciutto,” he explained, offering Hannibal half. “You don’t have to eat it now; I just figured, what with your lecture, you could, um. I don’t know, use the protein?” 

Usually, Hannibal was not a fan of eating someone else’s cooking (famous restaurants were a noted exception), but it also wasn’t like Will to procure food. He took the offering with a polite thank-you and placed it in a small pocket in his satchel. Given that Will had deviated so far from his usual behavior, Hannibal couldn’t help but ask, “What are you thinking about?”

Will snorted. Of course he’d been seen through. “Paris, actually.” 

Hannibal paused at his sketching. “Oh?” 

“It’s been two years since…” Will, ever careful, glanced around. “Since you’ve gotten in trouble.” 

_Gotten in trouble_? Hannibal smiled-- what a sweet euphemism for murder and cannibalism. “True.” It had been a nice two years, spent researching, drawing, having hours-long meals in their little cottage. Naturally there were additional elements of their relationship that were still yet to be unearthed, but Hannibal enjoyed Will’s company as it was-- they were partners, equals, and spent most of their waking hours together. Hannibal felt at relative peace. “Are you willing to trust me in a larger city? Surrounded by people?”

“Can you handle socializing without...” Killing and eating people? “Getting in trouble? Dinner parties?” 

Hannibal’s mouth twitched. Yes, he did miss dinner parties. There was a certain thrill watching colleagues and the upper crust supping on human flesh. Barbarity under the veneer of civilized dining. “I can,” Hannibal answered, “Perhaps you’d like to keep a closer eye on me while we’re there? We could always go back to our initial probation.” 

Oh, how Hannibal missed the way Will would tie their arms together and sleep next to him. He was so exquisite-- Hannibal’s favorite sketches were of Will, limp and relaxed with sleep. Will would twitch, and sigh, and his eyelids fluttered so elegantly during his REM cycle; he would roll his shoulders, groan, and throw his head back during a particularly lurid nightmare. Hannibal had never imagined himself missing the scent of sweat on his bedsheets, but Will had always brought out new sides of him. 

Will seemed to remember his own version of their probation. Turning away and rubbing at the back of his neck, he replied, “I don’t know if that’s necessary.”

“So you’ve come to trust me that much? I’m honored.” Hannibal felt himself gaining the upper hand. “How often would you accompany me to events? My colleagues are aware that I have a very shy husband.” 

This caught Will off guard. “Events?” 

“Galas, dinner parties-- not hosted by me, of course, but someone else. You’d have to play the part a little more often.” This was a shameless excuse for Hannibal to manage public displays of affection, but he couldn’t deny that socializing helped his career. “How often would you like to go?” 

“Hypothetically?” Will blanched at the idea, still idly wishing that they’d come up with a different cover story prior to their moving to France. This was… awkward. 

“Hypothetically.” 

“You know I’m not great at socializing. Or French, for that matter.” Will’s French was stumbling, awkward, and so thickly American that he’d embarrassed himself on multiple occasions; the way he continued to struggle and steadily improved, however, was one of Hannibal’s greatest sources of entertainment. “I’m not sure I’d make a good impression on _les aristocrates._ ” 

Hannibal smiled, knowing another, greater victory was close. “You wouldn’t have to impress anyone-- just stand back and drink someone else’s champagne.” _And wear the appropriate attire_ , he amended internally, already building a list of his favorite ateliers. What other cards could he use? “Perhaps we could even get a dog.” 

_This_ got Will’s attention. “You’re serious.” How did Americans say it? Ah, yes-- _hook, line, and sinker._

“Obviously we’d be moving into a larger apartment. There might even be room for a--” Hannibal did his level best to keep the distaste out of his voice, “A dog bed. There are various dog parks around the city, as well.” Will hummed, clearly lost in thought. Hannibal, always alert, checked the time. “We should probably get going-- don’t want to miss the train.” 

After some light packing of his art supplies, Hannibal stood up, and off they went to town. 

The train ride was routine, by now: Will would stare out of the window, watching people, houses, fields. His eyes took in every detail, while Hannibal organized his thoughts and lecture slides. 

Will walked Hannibal to La Sorbonne, waving him goodbye. In the past, he’d tried to sit in on a few of Hannibal’s lectures, curious-- until Hannibal’s dizzyingly rapid French had had him dozing on his shoulder on the train ride home. He’d had some difficulty living that down. His new habit had become exploring the city; looking at sugary pastries, Googling interesting statues or buildings he’d walk by. Sometimes, he’d set up camp in a cafe and just watch people. Without the pressure to pick their psyches apart for investigative purposes, it was a little pleasant. He barely had to speak to anyone. 

Today, however, Will’s wandering was a little more intentional in its direction. 

Hannibal’s lecture went quite quickly-- nearly every student showed interest, and some even raised questions based on their readings that had Hannibal curious about the content of their eventual papers. He’d very rarely met a student he had wanted to slice open, though he couldn’t say the same of his colleagues. As usual, it took some time for Hannibal to extricate himself from simpering students who wanted extra attention, but with his go-to excuse he managed to slip out before meeting Will. He had a date with his husband, after all. 

He left through his usual exit, seeing Will, as expected-- less expected, however, was the sheepish expression on his face, and the small dog he had in tow. A dachshund, by the look of it. “Is this your way of saying that you want to move?” Hannibal asked, leering at the tiny creature. It was nearly emaciated, and shaking like a leaf. It was better than a larger, messier dog, he supposed. It did look more like a rat than Hannibal liked, however. 

Will, his face growing red with a lovely blush, replied, “You mentioned that there were plenty of dog parks around here, so.” He shrugged, before picking the dog up and cradling it in his arms. “This is Saucisse.”

“You named the dachshund ‘Sausage?’” The dog Hannibal could accept, but the name was a step too far. 

Thankfully, Will seemed to be on the same page. “The shelter named her. We can always change it.” 

Well. That settled that. “I’ll call my realtor tonight.” Off they walked to the train station, Will occasionally cooing at his newfound friend, passing by a diminutive newspaper stand littered with the headline, “Un Nouveau Tueur en Série à Paris? L'histoire Derrière L'accrochage au Pont des Arts.” 

There was a convenient copy for English-speaking foreigners, listing the headline as, “A New Serial killer in Paris? The Story Behind the Hanging at Pont Des Arts.”


	2. Firelit Dinners

**Paris, France**

Will was familiar with the cacophony of animal shelters-- it reminded him a little of his old house in Wolftrap. Dogs were barking, whining, scratching at their cages, playing-- it was a little noisier than his old house, but the smell and atmosphere were the same. 

“These are some of our larger dogs-- they’ve been socialized fairly well with us. We don’t really have any fights in this area,” the shelter volunteer explained in rapid French, patting loose fur off her hands and onto her apron. “They’re all pretty high energy-- they love regular runs, playing ball, things like that. We recommend them for people with more active lifestyles.” The volunteer gave Will a quick appraising look-- “They might be the right choice for you?” 

Will’s mouth cracked into a small smile. “I’m pretty sure the ideal choice for me is taking them all home,” he admitted, “But I can only manage one right now.” They reached a small door, so Will stood back and gestured, “ _Après vous._ ” 

Cheeks turning pink, the volunteer ushered Will into the next room. This room was a touch quieter, with each dog resting in an individual cage. Once they smelled a new person, however, most of the dogs perked right up. Some jumped against their cages, others yapped and sniffed curiously-- “These are for our guests who are a little less sociable,” the volunteer, Madeleine-- her name plate had a small doodled pawprint-- pointed out. “Some of them aren’t great around a lot of dogs; they can get a little overstimulated.” 

“That’s understandable,” Will nodded, hearing some excited barking from the back room; he got a little overstimulated around other people, too. Putting his hands in his pockets and taking a walk around, Will petted some of the dogs who pushed up against their cages, wondering if he could make a case to Hannibal to take them all in. Will knew how to run a pack, after all. He scritched behind one’s ears, let another nudge against her cage for affection. He was just looking, he reminded himself. There was no way he was going to take any of them home. 

There was another dog toward the back of the room who didn’t approach the front of its cage; all it did was sit there, huddled at the back of its little home, bundling itself up in a tattered blanket. “Who’s this?” He asked quietly, leaning forward to take a better look. It had beady little eyes and brown fur, and trembled like its life depended on it. 

“Oh, that’s Saucisse,” the volunteer pointed out, “She’s, um… not great with people just yet.” Pulling a treat out of her pocket, Madeleine slipped it into the pup’s cage. “We think she’s about five or six, and probably came from an abusive household-- we actually found her on the street. You don’t see that often with purebreds.” 

Saucisse, smelling a treat, snapped it up before returning to her spot at the back of the cage, staring at Will as she ate like she expected him to take it from her. “We’re, um. We’re not sure what we’re going to do with Saucisse,” Madeleine admitted. 

“What do you mean?” Will asked, stomach dropping-- he knew what she meant. 

Madeleine looked understandably uncomfortable. “She’s been here for awhile, and she hasn’t really warmed up to anyone-- you know how it is, when they’re not sociable.” 

Will didn’t respond, only watching the little dog tremble. After a few moments, he asked, “Can I try opening her cage a little? I’d like to give her a treat.” 

Blinking in surprise, the volunteer placed her hand in her pocket and pulled out a dog biscuit, covered in loose crumbs. “Of course-- you’ve signed the release papers, right?” 

He nodded, stepping back to let Madeleine open the cage. Saucisse only curled tighter into a defensive little ball. “Hey there,” Will whispered in English, holding the treat out in his open hand. “You want this? You seemed to like it earlier.” 

Slowly, the dog walked up to Will’s hand. Even slower, she took the treat out of it, eyeing him the entire time. With equal caution, Will raised his free hand and placed it in the cage, palm up. She sniffed the other hand with her long snout, before backing up and returning to her spot at the back of the cage. She rested her head on her paws, staring at him. “Can I give her another treat?” 

Madeleine nodded quickly, pulling handfuls of mostly-broken treats out of her apron pocket and dumping them into Will’s hands. “Sorry, they’re kind of-- I just keep them on hand, and they tend to get jostled.” 

Will shook his head. “I know how it is, I used to do the same thing.” With more ammunition, Will placed some of the treat crumbs at the front of the cage. The dachshund crept forward, inhaled them, and then stayed where she was, ready to scurry to the back of her cage at the first sign of danger. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. 

Will spent a half hour at this, keeping his hand nice and still in her cage, and letting her come to him. Finally, he reached a point where she let him pet her; at one point she even nudged his hand for more. 

Madeleine, who’d walked off to tend to the other dogs, returned to Will and found him stroking Saucisse’s back as she rested her head on his arm. Looking up at the volunteer, Will stated simply, “I think she’s going to have to come home with me.” 

Grinning, Madeleine went back to the front desk to fetch adoption paperwork. 

Later, on their train ride home to Rouen, Will described his first encounter with the dog that had made herself comfortable on his lap. “She was pretty shy, and I know they were considering putting her down.” He punctuated the end of his sentence by petting her, and in response she gave a barely-audible whine and nuzzled against his thigh. “So instead she’s getting a new home.” 

Hannibal had always appreciated Will’s boundless empathy, even as it extended to the rat-like creature that had made itself at home on his legs. As far as Hannibal was concerned, Will had adopted an animal that was the epitome of shame to its canine ancestors, but if it gave Will the impetus to move to Paris, then long live the short-legged Saucisse. That reminded him-- “We really do need to change its name, don’t we? What would be something more appropriate-- _‘Souris_?’” 

“She’s not a mouse,” Will corrected, petting just behind her ears, “She’s just a little underfed, by the look of her.” 

Hannibal crossed his legs, the beginnings of a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “It’ll take more than feeding for her to look less like a street rat.” 

Saucisse, lifting her head and perching her chin on Will’s wrist, let out a little snort. “Looks like she took offense to that,” Will commented, thumb stroking her cheek. 

“We could always make her name a little more fitting,” Hannibal joked, “I could take my sausage stuffer out of storage.” He received a swift elbow in the arm, courtesy of Will. 

Their conversation coming to an end, Will started staring out the window, while Hannibal checked the news on his phone. One of the top news stories appeared to be a murder that took place on the Pont Des Arts? Delicately turning his phone away from Will, he opened the article. 

  
  


___

  
  


**The Home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  


“Do you enjoy seeing me suffer, Will?” Hannibal asked, sipping on his spoonful of chicken broth. He knew how injuries to the large intestine were to be treated, and could subsist on a clear liquid diet. Temporarily, at least. “Is it satisfying to you?” 

Will, unable to keep a crooked smile off his face, answered simply: “I have to say that I do. I’ve never really seen this side of you.” 

“I’d never thought that you were one for sadism.” 

Will took a sip of his own broth through a straw, before adding, “That makes both of us, then.” Briefly locking eyes, the two shared a private smile. 

Bedelia, timing her entrance carefully, added in a quick, “I’m going to buy more alcohol, gloves, and bandages-- is there anything you gentlemen might need?” 

“Actually,” Hannibal stopped her before she could reach the door, “May I use your address to purchase a few pairs of clothes? As pleasant as it is, we can’t stay in your bathrobes forever. I’ll be sure to clean them.” 

Dr. Du Maurier raised a skeptical brow. “How very kind of you to ask. I suppose I won’t be needing this address much longer, will I?” 

Hannibal smiled. “Just a few short weeks until we can eat meat again. I’ll be honored to have you as our first course.” 

Will seemed to take offense to this. “‘We?’” 

Ah. So Will wouldn’t be taking part. “That depends,” Hannibal began, “Do you not intend to join me? I think of it as a last supper of sorts.” Besides, it wasn’t as if Will hadn’t had his cooking before. “That is, if you’ll be joining me abroad.” 

This piece of information caught Dr. Du Maurier’s attention. “Are you planning on abstaining from cannibalism, Dr. Lecter?” 

“I’m considering it,” Hannibal replied, “Provided that I’m in the right circumstances.” From across the table, he brushed his ankle against Will’s. Will only stared down at the wood grain of the table. 

Bedelia’s voice wavered. “And in the wrong circumstances?” 

Dr. Lecter only shrugged, eyeing his fellow diner. “That’s to be decided.” 

It was a beautiful late morning; the light filtered in through the windows, warming the room. Despite that warmth, Dr. Du Maurier felt a chill run down her spine. “Well then. I suppose you have an important choice to make, Mr. Graham.” 

The man in question visibly tensed, staring harder than ever into the table. “What are your thoughts on apple cream sauce, Dr. Du Maurier?” Hannibal asked, seemingly out of nowhere, with a placid expression. “Perhaps a mushroom sauce?” 

This was enough to have Bedelia take her leave. 

Will’s voice was low when he finally asked, “A last supper?” 

So he’d taken the bait. “Yes.” Hannibal took a sip of his water. “If you were to join me, I’d try restricting my diet.” They’d discussed this before, but if repetition encouraged Will to believe in him, then Hannibal would repeat himself as many times as necessary. “And should I try to fall off the proverbial wagon…” He let his pause linger in the air. “You would be welcome to stop me.” 

“A gilded cage of my own creation,” Will echoed Hannibal’s words back to him. “And why would you want to keep your word?” 

Hannibal smiled into his poor excuse of a meal. “I’ve already suffered the wrath of the lamb once, haven’t I? How many times can I reasonably expect to survive it?” 

“Are you giving me permission to kill you, Doctor Lecter?” Will’s voice was low and steady, and his eyes finally returned to Hannibal’s own. 

Hannibal’s eyes grew fond with a soft expression Will had only seen glimpses of. “I am giving you the key to the rest of my life.” He took another sip of his broth, continuing, “I lay myself prostrate at your feet.” His ankle brushed against Will’s again. 

There was a long silence, but Hannibal wasn’t deterred. He would wait until Will spoke next. 

“And Molly? Walter?” 

“Safe from me. We can even send anonymous donations, if you prefer-- for a college fund.” 

“That’s very generous of you.” 

“Thank you.” Generosity was hardly the motive for this promise, but no matter. There was another silence, and Hannibal could almost hear the clicking and whirring of Will’s mind as he weighed his options. At the very least, he seemed far enough in his own mind to let Hannibal watch his face openly; to appreciate the small cluster of wrinkles on his forehead whenever he was deep in thought. 

It was minutes later when Will returned. “Say that we move to France. Hypothetically. What happens then?” 

“Hypothetically,” Hannibal nodded, “I suppose we would find somewhere to stay, preferably out of the city, at least until the public forgets us. And then…” It was satisfying to finally discuss this, wasn’t it? Planning their life together. “And then we live as we like. I’m sure there would be plenty of opportunities for you to fish, plenty of museums for us to visit. We could see plays, operas, symphonies… The options are limitless.” They really were, weren’t they? Hannibal hadn’t felt this excited in some time. 

Will seemed to be considering it, as well. “I could see us in some kind of cottage. Something small.” 

“It would be a wonderful start,” Hannibal agreed. What a shame that neither of them could drink alcohol-- this would be the perfect time for champagne. “We could even have a garden.” Hannibal wouldn’t touch it, but he could imagine Will tending to one. Getting his hands dirty. The thought was tempting. 

Hannibal’s words fell on deaf ears, however, as Will moved directly to logistics. “And what exactly would be our cover story? Two single men living together?” A sardonic little smile grew on the uninjured side of his face. “We’re not exactly Holmes and Watson.” 

“True.” Fortunately there was a convenient cover for them, if Will would only accept it. “Say that we’re a married couple--” 

“A _married couple._ ” Will’s voice dripped with disbelief. 

Hannibal shrugged. “Tell me a better cover for two men living alone together.” He paused, before adding, “It’s not as if we’d have to consummate it.” Yet. 

For all his disagreement with the idea, Will still gave a huff of laughter. “It’s not like we have to decide that now.” 

“No,” Hannibal agreed, taking a self-satisfied sip of his soup. “You’re right. We have plenty of time to figure out our next steps while we recover.” He looked out the window, at Bedelia’s little suburb, and imagined his and Will’s life together. Yes, Abigail was gone-- he had taken that particular teacup and smashed it with a vindictiveness that almost shocked him-- but look how they had managed, even without her. 

Perhaps that was one murder that he regretted, in a distant way. But there was no point in being maudlin about the past when the future was this bright. 

They spent the day reading, checking the news (littered with Hannibal’s mugshot, and the odd flattering picture of Will) -- and turning off the news as soon as Hannibal confirmed that they were presumed dead. Will wasn’t a fan of the public spectacle, and the last thing they needed was him to get cold feet. So, reading and planning and puttering around the house it was. 

Just after sunset, Will acquired a length of white rope. Sitting next to Hannibal, pulled it taut, looking him in the eyes. “We’re going to have to figure out a sleeping arrangement,” Will said simply, gesturing for Hannibal to give him his hand. 

“And this includes rope?” Hannibal rebutted, hand aloft, ready for Will to maneuver it how he liked. “Such little faith you have in me.” 

Will ignored him. “I can’t keep an eye on you twenty-four seven,” he mumbled, tying a knot at Hannibal’s wrist, “But I _can_ make it so that you don’t sneak away without me noticing.” At this, Will tied the rest of the rope to his own wrist in what looked like an obscenely complex knot. “You won’t be able to cut or untie this without me waking up.” 

More than anything else, Hannibal felt… touched. “You intend to give me both your sleeping and waking hours?” He asked, fingertips grazing Will’s wrist as he spoke. 

Will, a skilled fisherman, tugged on his end of the rope. The knot was stable. “You called it a ‘Gilded cage of my own creation,’” he said quietly, and in the moment Hannibal couldn’t help but appreciate the way the low light of the room touched Will’s skin. “So here it is.” 

Hannibal could have kissed him. Sadly, Will admitted that this was a test run, untying the knot with deft hands. Hannibal would only have to watch him do so once more to know how to untie himself, if needed. 

Bedelia Du Maurier, who overheard this exchange in the next room, rolled her eyes as hard as she could roll them. 

As the night grew later, the host and guests readied themselves for bed; Hannibal made his way to the shower, while Will read through one of Du Maurier’s many psychological tomes. The woman herself sipped on some chamomile tea, before saying in her smooth voice, “Have you considered reading _The Psychology of Denial_? You might find that more enlightening.” 

Will had anticipated this. Bedelia had always taken a strangely antagonistic stance to Will’s friendship with Hannibal. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want that for yourself, the way you’re behaving? You’re acting like he’s not going to have you on the menu as soon as he can eat something solid.” 

Her lips twitched. “You know just as well as I do that there’s no way for me to truly escape from Dr. Lecter,” she smiled, “I’m just taking from him the satisfaction of hunting me down.” 

“A final power play, is it? Not much of a strategy.” 

Du Maurier’s lips curled into an elegant sneer. “And what is yours, Will Graham? Leaving your wife and child to honeymoon with a serial killer?” 

This made Will put down his book, hands clutching onto the fabric of his host’s couch. “I’m not _honeymooning_. This is a compromise.” 

“A compromise?” Her smirk turned into something bordering on amusement. “You share your jokes together; you’re sleeping in the same bed together-- how long until the two of you are together in the carnal sense?” 

Will’s nails ripped into the fabric of Bedelia’s couch. 

___

**Rouen, France**

  
  


Saucisse took to her new surroundings like a terrified dog would; she started at the foyer, where Will had placed her, and found a corner that she deemed her own. “And you’re positive she’s not a rat?” Hannibal asked, glancing at Will’s elbow in case he wanted to attack again. 

“Abused dogs tend to act like this; the world hasn’t been very kind to them. She’ll just need some time to get used to this place.” Approaching her corner, Will gave Saucisse a little head pat. “And then we’re going to move-- but you’ll be okay with that, won’t you?” 

She lifted her nose and bumped it against Will’s palm. “I’ll get started on dinner, then,” Hannibal shrugged off his suit jacket and made his way to the kitchen. Putting on his apron, he pulled out a nice Liber Pater wine bottle, before pouring said wine into two glasses. The satisfaction in seeing Will drink expensive wines like he’d drink a can of beer never grew old. Nothing was too good for him; nothing impressed him. Next, he pulled from the refrigerator two thick cuts of sirloin steaks, ready to be baked and pan-seared. This got the dog’s attention; cautiously, she made her way to the kitchen and watched Hannibal cut his garlic. 

“Looks like she already likes you,” Will noted, walking into the kitchen and sitting on his haunches to give Saucisse a pet. She moved out of the way, circling Hannibal until she found another vantage point to watch him. 

“She likes meat,” Hannibal answered, taking his time on the garlic. 

Will only gave a small smile, cocking his head to the side and watching as this new member of their household stared fixedly at Hannibal, waiting for a scrap to fall. “Can I do anything to help, by the way, or…?” 

For two years they’d had this same conversation, nearly every night. There was something inside of Will that was antsy, uncomfortable with sitting down while someone else worked nearby. “You can drink half that bottle and struggle to cut your steak,” Hannibal supplied, lips twisting into a smile. That had happened only once, when Hannibal had bought a very strong wine that particularly agreed with Will’s palate. It was the only time he’d seen Will well and truly drunk-- drowsy, red in the face, with so many inhibitions fallen away. He wouldn’t say no to seeing that again. 

Will turned away-- Hannibal knew without having to look that his ears were pink. “I think I’ll settle for some reading, actually.” And read he did, every so often looking toward the kitchen to find Saucisse waiting patiently for a scrap. They didn’t have much in the way of dog food, after all, and Will _had_ been planning to give her some leftover chicken… Setting the book aside, Will walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the chicken, quite effectively pulling Saucisse from Hannibal’s side. “Someone’s food motivated,” Will said quietly, handing her a small cut. “You like that? Want some more?” And there he was, giving Saucisse her first meal in their home. 

‘Their home.’ Strange, how he’d come to think of this cottage in Rouen as his home, while Molly and Walter were somewhere in the world, living their lives. It had been a few weeks since he had checked Molly’s social media, admired how tall Wally had grown. And he was missing it. Will felt a tightness in his throat at the thought. What was it that Dr. Du Maurier had said? He was ‘honeymooning’? 

The moment Will felt a hand on his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Will,” Hannibal’s voice was low and steady, grounding him. “Come back to me.” 

Right. He was in Rouen, in the kitchen… He dipped his head, sighing. Every so often he’d forget who and where he was: keeping the world safe from Hannibal Lecter. The snuffling and lick at his nose was a further shock still-- until he realized it was Saucisse, seemingly trying to comfort him. Pulling her into his lap and petting her, he tilted his head up and looked at Hannibal. Doctor Lecter, Hannibal the Cannibal. Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry about that.” 

“Don’t be. You’re around an animal that reminds you of your old home,” Hannibal answered, offering Will a hand up. “It’s natural to be sentimental about these things. Dinner’s almost ready-- you can sit at the table if you like.” 

‘Sentimental’ was a word for it. Still, Will did as he was told, before taking another sip of his wine. Hannibal, meanwhile, served their dinner, along with two flutes of champagne-- this caught Will’s attention. “Are we celebrating something?” 

Hannibal’s usual smirk reappeared. “We’ve made two large decisions in one day, Will. What’s not to celebrate? We have Saucisse--” Hannibal paused, and they both shared a look. Maybe they didn’t need to change her name after all; it was fitting, in a way. “And we’ve made the decision to move to the city. Is that not worth celebrating?” 

Will only gave a crooked half-smile, accepting the champagne flute and taking a long drink. “You just want to see me drunk again.” 

“You’re in charge of your own drinking, Mr. Ingram,” Hannibal answered, sitting down at his seat, “But I can’t say that I’d be against seeing that again.” As if to punctuate his sentence, he took a sip of his own champagne. 

They ate in comfortable silence; they almost always did. Will would give the occasional compliment to the chef, and Hannibal would accept it. Occasionally breaking the silence, however, was Saucisse’s tail, thumping the rug below her for treats. 

It was Hannibal who broke the silence. “What are you thinking about?” 

Will, cutting the last of his steak, paused. They sat for a moment or two in the silence, before he conceded. “I’m thinking about Molly and Walter,” he admitted, eyes on his steak. “Just…” What was there to say? “I hope the wounds I’ve inflicted on them don’t fester.” 

“How admirable,” Hannibal answered, before, “They’re alive, safe, and living comfortably.” Thanks to Hannibal’s annual donation of $30,000. Hannibal switched back to the wine, savoring the taste. “Is that not enough?” 

Will’s eyes remained where they were, his mind already back in Virginia. “Wally deserved a father,” he muttered, voice trembling. “He lost his birth father when he was just a kid, and now he’s been abandoned all over again.” Yes, technically Will was stopping Hannibal from murdering people-- but he was still sitting comfortably in a cabin halfway around the world from his wife and child. He was dead to them. This ache was familiar-- it had settled right beneath his heart and followed him to France. 

Hannibal took a bite of his steak, chewing it thoroughly and swallowing before finally responding. “You have a sadist streak-- we’ve discussed it before,” he began, remembering their conversation over chicken broth all those months ago. “It appears that you have a masochistic streak, as well. Moving in tandem together.” 

“An ouroboros of misery,” Will replied, sardonic smile creeping at the corners of his mouth. 

Hannibal smiled. “A convenient dichotomy built in order to retain a moral high ground. Your misery is self-imposed, to ensure that you never fully enjoy what’s in front of you.” A pause, while Will’s eyes locked onto Hannibal’s own, “Self-flagellation of the deepest kind.” 

Will placed his fork and knife on his plate. “It’s not like that. I abandoned a child, my own son.” 

“You took steps to protect him,” Hannibal countered, eyes glinting, “How many more deaths would there have been if you weren’t here, Will? Fifty? One hundred?” 

“I could achieve the same goal by killing you,” Will answered, and every object in the room became a potential murder weapon. 

Hannibal’s hand remained steady on his steak knife. “You could,” he admitted, “But breaking a mirror is only satisfying for a moment. After that, all you have are broken reflections of yourself.” Glancing down at their new dog, Hannibal took a slightly different route. “Is it not nice to have an animal domesticated?” 

Will, following Hannibal’s eyes, looked at Saucisse. “It’s nice to have a dog, yes.” Where was Hannibal going with this? Was Saucisse in danger? 

“Imagine the triumph of our ancestors, as they persuaded the wolf to dine with them. To hunt with them. Making a wild animal cater to their will.” 

“Are you the wolf in this analogy, Dr. Lecter?” 

Hannibal’s inscrutable smile returned. “It’s Dr. Ingram now, Henry,” he answered, cutting back into his steak. “Do you feel the satisfaction of making a beast submit to you? Or are you too distracted by your self-imposed torture to let yourself enjoy it?” 

“And how exactly do you propose that I ‘enjoy it’?” Will asked, half afraid of the answer. 

Thankfully, Hannibal only shrugged, before topping off both of their glasses of wine. “However you see fit.” If he stretched out his leg to let his ankle brush against Will’s own, neither of them mentioned it. “Ah-- I almost forgot to tell you, we have an apartment to view tomorrow. I’m considering making an offer.”

“I thought that’s what you were just doing,” Will mumbled into his wine glass. Hannibal only smiled, savoring the taste of his steak. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thanks to everyone for being so supportive of my first chapter! It's been awhile since I've written fanfic, but it's so wonderful knowing that people enjoy it. :D


	3. Small Omissions

**Paris, France**

The apartment was entirely too nice. With inlaid accents reminiscent of Rococo style crawling up the walls, gleaming wood floors, and not one but _two_ bathrooms that housed tubs that could be mistaken as small pools, Will cringed just thinking about the cost. Looking out of one of the expansive windows, he peered down to the greenery waiting below-- they were right next to a park. “Ah, yes, that’s Avenue Foch,” the realtor explained in rapid French, “It’s right next to Port Dauphine, in terms of transportation, and you can see the lovely view of Pavillion Dauphine Saint Claire to the west. It’s quite the enviable location.” The realtor also gestured to the fireplace with a grin-- “It’s a working fireplace. Difficult to come by in the city.” His eyes slid in Hannibal’s direction. “What are your thoughts, Dr. Ingram?” 

Hannibal, admiring some gold-leafed accent walls, turned back to Will. “I think it’s nice enough. The third bedroom would likely make an excellent office space.” Walking to Will and standing beside him by one of the expansive windows, he added, “Is this spacious enough for you?” 

Will kept his eyes on the greenery below him. “Maybe too much space.” 

“It would certainly be a new lifestyle for you,” Hannibal agreed, eyes on his husband. Watching for a reaction. “Perhaps not an entirely unwelcome one?” 

“How much does the apartment cost?” 

“Money’s no object.” 

“ _Lucius._ ” Hannibal’s alias came easily to Will, now, and he’d use it as harshly as necessary.

“Henry,” Hannibal spoke right back, the smallest smile curling at the edges of his mouth. Will’s eyes slid over to Hannibal’s with a glare that could lance through lesser men. “A little more than six million euros.” 

As expected, Will blanched. “No.” 

“Saucisse would enjoy the parks. We could find new paths every morning. Have you seen the ponds at Bois de Boulogne?” Hannibal walked to the west end of the apartment, gesturing to the trees spread out before another picture window. “You’d almost forget Paris was outside of it. The park is quite immersive.” 

“We can visit other parks for less than six million.” 

“It’s not as if it’s your money,” Hannibal countered into Will’s ear, dealing what he knew to be the fatal blow. Everything about Will’s current life had been bought with his money: from their house in Rouen to the underwear he was wearing to the food he ate-- it had all been sponsored by Hannibal, to Will’s great shame and mortification. It was an unspoken rule that they left this fact unmentioned, and Hannibal’s comment toed the line. “And I promise you, it isn’t much. I want both of us to be comfortable.” Hannibal ran his hand along the small of Will’s back. “We can still go back to Rouen as much as you’d like. And there’s plenty of room for…” What was it that dogs liked? “Fetch.” 

This seemed to persuade Will more than anything else, and he took another appraising look at the common room. “It’s a lot of space to fill.” With that one concession, he left Hannibal to look around the rest of the apartment. 

Four bedrooms, a massive kitchen, a dining room, and a living room. One walk-in closet in the master bedroom-- that would be Hannibal’s bedroom, surely. Two bathrooms wouldn’t be half bad, either-- Will still wasn’t sure why Hannibal was so insistent on showering right after he did. Standing in the master bathroom, he ran the tap. “Are the pipes copper?” 

The realtor, hovering at the edge of the master bedroom so as to be equidistant from both men, didn’t hesitate to answer. “They are! Actually, when the last owners remodeled the bathrooms, they replaced all the original pipes. They told me that the hot water works like a dream, too.” 

Will hummed in acknowledgement, looking down. The entire floor was one slab of marble. “Any history of mold? Water damage?” It was an old apartment, after all. 

“Ah, yes, the last inspection actually confirmed that there was no mold to be found, but of course the building is quite old. Would you prefer a more modern style?” 

Walking back out to the master bedroom, Will touched along the complex molding on the walls. The height of a classic French _appartement_. “Are these original?” 

“Yes-- and restored, actually.” It was Hannibal who spoke as he entered the room, eyes focused on the walls and ceiling. “Is the ceiling fit for fixtures? I might have a heavy chandelier in mind.” Will gave Hannibal a quick look, indicating his confusion. A chandelier? In the master bedroom? The doctor only shrugged in response, a quiet smugness in his eyes. 

The realtor, recognizing a sign of genuine interest, grinned. “Yes, that should certainly be doable. World War II couldn’t take this down; I doubt some lighting would make much of a difference.” 

Will, suspicious, turned to their realtor and asked him in French, “May I speak to my husband alone?” 

The realtor, sensing a sale around the corner, graciously left the room. “Exactly how long have you been eyeing this apartment?” 

Hannibal seemed to recognize when he was caught. “Oh, perhaps a month. Maybe two. The kitchen caught my attention.” 

So that was why Hannibal had been pushing so hard for a move. Will ran a quick hand through his hair and sighed, closing his eyes. Why wasn’t Rouen enough? They were comfortable, the town was small enough for Will to enjoy the countryside. Their life almost felt simple there. They had something adjacent to _happiness_. But of course Hannibal wouldn’t be satisfied with that. Where Will found comfort in solitude, Hannibal needed society. They were two fundamentally incompatible people… trapped together in an agreement of their own creation. 

Not for the first time, he regretted letting Hannibal live. “Will,” Hannibal said quietly, tucking a strand of Will’s hair behind his head. Will jolted-- he hadn’t even heard the doctor coming. Instead of speaking, Hannibal held Will close in a quick hug; he placed a firm hand on the back of Will’s neck. He accepted the touches without even realizing, leaning into the hug and remembering the moment they’d shared after killing the Red Dragon, slick with blood. 

Right. No one else could understand this, them. Will dropped his head to Hannibal’s shoulder. “I don’t want things to change.” 

“They won’t,” Hannibal’s voice was soft. He could feel Hannibal’s breath against his ear, the hand on the back of his neck. The press of another body against him. “The world is safe from me. You’ve ensured that.” At that, all of the tension bled out of Will in one go. All that was left was a bone-deep exhaustion. 

He took a moment there, wrapped in Hannibal’s arms, accepting gentle strokes along his back from a man who had killed more people than Will cared to imagine. “This is still stupidly expensive.” 

“I can understand why you’d think that.” 

“We don’t need this much room.” 

“You may be right about that.” 

“We’re still going back to Rouen every weekend.” 

“Of course.” 

They shared a moment of silence. Hannibal did his best to memorize the smell and feel of the moment. The cologne Hannibal had bought for him. The blue button-down shirt that had been tailor-made to fit him, based on Hannibal’s estimated measurements. The way Will’s curls tickled his cheek. How warmth blossomed on his suit coat with every breath Will took. Hannibal could have stayed there all day. 

Will was the first to break away. “Fine. At least we’ll finally have separate bathrooms.” 

Ah, yes, the separate bathroom. Hannibal would have to come up with an excuse to sabotage Will’s new bathtub; there was no way he was giving up the faint smell of sex Will left behind after his longer showers. But that was a problem for another day. “Let me make an offer.” 

And Will was alone in the master bedroom, wondering why anyone would want to sleep beneath a chandelier. 

___

  
  
  


**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  
  


There was no way he was going to fall asleep like this. Hands tied together in two tight knots, Will laid next to Hannibal, both of them on their backs, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere nearby, crickets chirped. Will could feel himself being watched. 

Hannibal was the first to break the silence. “So--” 

“Shut up.” Will was the first to resume it. Hannibal had killed and eaten people for less, he knew, but there was a weight at the pit of his stomach that grew heavier as the night drew on. Now wasn’t the time for small talk. Every time he closed his eyes, Molly and Walter appeared. At the dinner table, fly fishing in the river near Will’s cabin, in the drive-thru at Burger King after Wally’s soccer practice. He missed eating with his son in the parking lot, watching birds. He missed the way his son would occasionally feed them fries, starting an avian frenzy; driving away chased by a flock of them. He missed curling up in bed with Molls, listening to her jokes while she stroked his chest. 

He didn’t expect the minutiae of his normal days to ache like this. Was Molly okay? Was Walter? Of course they weren’t-- as far as they were concerned, Will had died. He could imagine her laying awake at night, just like this, wondering about him. Missing him. And Will had gone and left both of them, left his pack of dogs behind, for what? 

To honeymoon with a serial killer? Will twisted his shoulder back so he could roll away from Hannibal. On his side, he stared at the edge of his bed. He would lay in this position next to Molls, brush his fingers through her hair after long days at the hospital. She’d always told him she was lucky to have him. 

Will gulped, tears threatening to come to his eyes. She wasn’t lucky to have him. Not like this. 

Hannibal had only gotten caught because he had consented to get caught. Will knew this, Jack knew this, Alana knew this. It had been another mind game of his, presenting his lure and waiting for Will to take the bait. A fisherman, rather than a hunter. It had worked. 

There was no way Will could use the same old trick to put him back in the BSHCI. There was no way Hannibal would accept being caged, even for the betterment of humanity. Bedelia knew it as well-- she felt the same weight of inevitability as Will. There was no point in even trying to run away. Tears were brimming at the edges of his eyelids, now, and all he could do was sigh. 

“You shouldn’t be laying on that shoulder, Will,” Dr. Lecter said, “You’re at risk of tearing your stitches.” 

Will closed his eyes. Molly, Walter. The dinner table, surrounded by a pack of optimistic dogs. He opened them again. “Well, thankfully I can get them re-stitched.” 

“I’d prefer not building any more scar tissue than necessary. I imagine you’ll still want full mobility of your arms after this?” 

Fuck. He was right. “Fuck you,” Will replied, turning back over and feeling relief on both shoulders-- he hadn’t even realized that he was in pain. 

He heard a snort from Hannibal, followed by a shifting of weight on the bed. Hannibal had rolled toward him. “I’m coming to learn that you’re full of expletives when you’re tired.” With his free hand, Hannibal brushed a lock of hair away from Will’s forehead, fingers trailing over the scar he had cut into Will all those months ago. It was beautiful, even in the dark. 

Will slapped his hand off of him. “Keep your hands to yourself.” 

Thankfully the doctor did as he was told, laying his hand down on the mattress. There was a beat or two of silence, before he tried again. “What are you thinking about right now?” 

Another pause. “Killing you,” Will answered honestly, eyes firmly on the ceiling. “Wishing we could have both fallen off of that cliff and died. It would’ve been better that way.” Molly and Walter would have a reason to mourn. Will could have died as a decent man. Not necessarily a good one, but at least his death would have been honest. He wouldn’t be stuck in this… stasis. He wouldn’t feel like he was suffocating from his own guilt. 

“And yet here we are,” Hannibal answered, glancing down at the hand tied to Will’s. “Tied together, literally and figuratively.” The rope felt heavy and tight on Hannibal’s wrist; there was a dull ache attached to the sensation. A small price to pay for a front row seat to Will Graham, clad in only a cotton bathrobe; fighting his internal monsters with the same ferocity with which they’d fought one another. A little bit of him wanted to reach into Will’s mind and watch every thought that flitted by. What romantic notions Will could inspire in him. “I already own a house in France,” Hannibal said quietly, reading Will’s face for any reaction. “It was for a time like this, for getting away.” 

The Masseter muscle in Will’s jaw tensed. “Exactly how many houses do you have, Dr. Lecter?” 

“Enough.” 

“That’s not much of an answer.” 

“I’ve made contingency plans. Can you blame me?” 

Will snorted. “After your arrest, Jack called you the Devil. I can’t say that I don’t see the resemblance.” 

“A fallen angel cast out of heaven for disagreeing with God’s authority? How flattering.” 

“Mm, more of the Devil in the modern sense. A tricky bastard. A contagious kind of infection.” 

‘Infection’? An interesting choice of words. Hannibal wanted to touch Will’s forehead again, just to be closer to his thoughts. “Have I infected you, Will?” 

In the dark, Hannibal could just barely see a pained expression knit between Will’s brows. “You already know the answer to that.” 

A small thrill ran through Hannibal. “Say it anyway.” 

Will sighed. There was no way out of this, was there? No way away from him. That same feeling of helplessness, of inevitability, grew hot in his stomach. “At this point I’m probably septic.” 

Sepsis. The idea of Hannibal invading Will’s mind and body this way was… Intoxicating. Arousal curled in his abdomen. He wanted to stroke Will’s spine, his head, his limbs, to see his infection marked onto Will’s body. He was shocked to find that he didn’t have a response. 

It was Will’s turn to ask the questions. “What are you thinking about?” 

Hannibal was thinking that Will was the perfect man for him; the other half that Aristophanes had theorized in Plato’s Symposium, lying next to him. Fastened together. “I would say that you’re an infection as well,” Hannibal said, voice barely audible. He had to speak over the lump in his throat. “We’re both reciprocal infections. Inexorably bound together by our natures. I’m afraid that you’ve become a part of me just as I’ve become a part of you.” He looked down at the white rope that tied them together. More than anything it felt like a prop, a redundant object that at best only symbolized their connection. A more apt image would be Will cradled in Hannibal’s arms. Perhaps one day he’d be able to depict that idea in reality. 

“It’s terminal for both of us, then.” Will’s voice was flat. He stared up at the ceiling, back in the battleground of his own mind. Not for the first time, Hannibal wanted to hold Will’s face and kiss him. He settled for enjoying the warmth of Will’s wrist against his own. 

They didn’t speak again that night. Slowly, so slowly Hannibal could have fallen asleep himself, Will fell into a slumber. His face relaxed; his breathing slowed down. Hannibal almost wished he had a paper and pencil. 

Hannibal only slept for about an hour; watching Will sleep was addictive. There was grace in his stillness, and his every movement appeared tailored for the eye. He seemed to have two distinct nightmares, by the way his brows drew together, relaxed, and drew together again; the same could be said about his mouth, pulling into two grimaces. Hannibal had no intention of waking him up. 

The sun was up by the time Will awoke, and for a moment panic spiked through him at the sensation of being tied down to something. Had the Vergers-- no. It was Hannibal. Just… Hannibal, seemingly asleep. Will ran a hand through his hair, not surprised to find it sweaty. Shit. Will smacked him awake, and Hannibal-- always ready for a fight-- jolted and grabbed Will’s wrist, hard enough to scrape the bones together. “Don’t do that again.” 

“Good morning to you too.” 

At least Hannibal seemed to know a lost cause when he saw one. He let go of Will’s wrist, using his free hand to sit up on the bed. “Thank you. If you’d be so kind as to untie me?” With a grunt Will tugged at the rope, before rubbing at his eyes. “Not a morning person?” 

“It’s hard to sleep while tied down to someone,” Will answered, voice rough with sleep. It was harder to sleep while being crushed with guilt, but at least it wasn’t so bad in the morning. “Any plans for the day, or are we just going to keep Du Maurier on her toes?” 

He still struggled with the knot. Clearly Will’s motor skills were less than fine when he was tired-- Hannibal filed away that piece of information for later consideration. “I’m going to make us coffee and breakfast,” he began, “Check our wounds, maybe flush your mouth out, just in case there’s a risk of infection.” Using his free hand, Hannibal covered his mouth and yawned. “I should buy a set of plane tickets, as well. Will you be coming along?” 

Aha-- finally, Will untied the knots, before letting the rope fall to the bed. He did much the same, bleary-eyed and aching. “If I do, you’ll do as you promised? No more killing?” 

Hannibal checked the chafing on his wrist-- visible, but not too painful. He could live with this. “I’ll only kill if you ask me to.” 

That was a touch more ominous than Will had anticipated. “And if I say no?” 

“Then there will likely be some killing.” A great deal of killing. He had been meaning to catch up with some of his old teachers in France, anyway. Perhaps he’d finish what he had started on Will’s brain. 

Eyes on the ceiling, Will sighed. “Fine.” 

Oh? “You’re coming with me?”

“What choice do I have?” 

Hannibal laid down next to his apparent partner, watching for any expression. “You always have a choice.” 

Will just laughed. It sounded hollow.

  
  


___

  
  


**Paris, France**

It took two hours for the sale to finally close, and less than a week for nearly all of their belongings to be transferred to their new apartment. The speed and efficiency with which Hannibal had organized the whole process was dizzying; Will had barely needed to lift a finger, short of packing his meager personal effects. He’d found himself muttering the word “Unbelievable” when he brought Saucisse into her new home, only to find it fully furnished, and almost fully decorated. “How? Where did--” there were paintings he’d never seen before hung up on the walls. “ _How_?” He’d been gone for barely three hours to pick up Saucisse-- Hannibal was supposed to be at a seminar, for god’s sake. 

True to form, Saucisse remained at Will’s ankles, even as Hannibal appeared from the master bedroom. “Henry, excellent-- most of your things are still in boxes. I figured you’d want to set up your studio yourself.” Behind him were six strangers, sweaty and exhausted. Movers. 

“Oh, um. Thank you,” Will answered awkwardly, before turning to the movers and adding another short, “ _Merci beaucoup. Désolé, il y a beaucoup des meubles._ ” He fumbled for his wallet, before remembering he had no cash on him. “Lucius?” 

‘Lucius,’ ever generous, pulled out his wallet and gave each mover an additional fifty euros-- on top of their nine hundred euros each, they should have been about set. With some additional thank-yous and handshakes, and various business cards handed around, the movers exited the building with smiles on their faces. The moment they were out, Will confiscated the cards. “Incredible. How did you manage this?” 

“You’d be surprised how quickly people work when paid adequately,” Hannibal answered, “And I’d hardly want to stress you unnecessarily.” 

Will was quick to cut through Hannibal’s bullshit. “You’re asking me to believe that this was solely for my benefit?” 

“Perhaps I wanted to use my new office space to prepare for tomorrow’s seminar.” 

That’s what he’d thought. “Fair enough. I’ll get my bedroom set up.” He paused. “Thank you. For-- letting me handle that.” He hadn’t expected Hannibal to be quite that considerate. 

That strange soft look reappeared in Hannibal’s eyes, and Will was quick in walking to his room. He had unpacking to do, after all. 

It took thirty minutes. After all the hell he’d gone through moving in with Molls, this was almost too easy. A few shirts, a few trousers, jackets for the winter, some boots. All of them fit very nicely into the dresser sat at the edge of the room, leaving him with a large closet to fill. For all the stress he’d had about moving his personal belongings, he really didn’t have that many. 

Huh. Compared to the collection of fashion pieces and artwork that littered the rest of the apartment, his room almost felt bare. All he had to put in the nightstand was his favorite set of books. Sitting on the bed and stroking Saucisse’s fur-- she’d made herself comfortable on his bed as soon as the fitted sheet had been put on-- he considered. When was the last time he’d bought anything for himself? Most of his fly fishing equipment was either bought secondhand or found in nature; he’d never had to worry about food, what with Hannibal hogging the kitchen. 

Maybe he’d use the debit card Hannibal had given him while the doctor was in his seminar. What was the last thing he’d bought on it, anyway? A sandwich? Of course, it wasn’t his money to spend. 

But it wasn’t as if he’d chosen any of his personal effects, either-- all of his clothes came from one of Hannibal’s tailors, all of his bedsheets came in from some Italian company. Looking around the room, he realized that the only thing that Will had chosen in the room was Saucisse. His hand stilled, and she kicked him for more. He couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him.

When Hannibal had given him that card, Will was told that he could do whatever he liked with it. And, hell, Hannibal had gone and bought a six million euro apartment. Maybe he’d go out while Dr. Ingram was lecturing, and maybe he’d even buy something small for himself. He’d consider it, at least. 

The next morning, they settled into their new routine: Will took Saucisse for a long walk in the Bois de Boulogne while Hannibal made breakfast; Will enjoyed the fruit of Hannibal’s labors, and fed the occasional scrap to their dog. It was nice, in a way, waking up to see the city; seeing all of this greenery around. Sure, it wouldn’t be there for long-- October had begun-- but the new scenery was refreshing. Will spent most of his morning wearing out Saucisse; her new favorite game was ball, and her favorite method of catching it included skidding into every wall in the house. Will had begun to suspect that she wasn’t the smartest, but by god did she have stamina. With patience and a great deal of ball, Saucisse was asleep on their couch by the time Hannibal needed to leave for class. 

“So what’s the topic of the day, Professor?” Will asked as they entered the Port Dauphine train station, fingers tapping on Hannibal’s briefcase. “Anything interesting?” 

Hannibal smiled; it was rare that Will took any genuine interest in art history. “The political and social implications of Rembrandt’s _Night Watch_.” 

“And how many people are in the seminar?” 

“There are eight.” 

“I’m surprised you have that many.” The eye roll Hannibal gave Will was worth the train fare. They stepped onto the incoming train, taking seats next to one another; thankfully, they weren’t trying to get anywhere during rush hour. 

“I actually quite enjoy the small class size. The discussions tend to be more in-depth; differences of opinion are more fully discussed. Most of the time, at least.” Hannibal tapped at his briefcase. 

“Most of the time?” 

Ah-- he was caught. “Let’s say that one of my seminar students can be quite shy.” She had a talent for derailing conversation with her long pauses and averted eye contact; half the time he wondered why she entered the course in the first place. 

Will, ever the kinder of the two, empathized immediately. “It can be hard to do public speeches, even with small classroom sizes; sometimes because of them.” 

“Yes, in which case she could have catered to her strengths and chosen a larger class size; she could have even taken a class on public speaking. She’s created an issue for herself, and unfortunately it will have to be detrimental to her grade.” 

There was a short silence. “Have you tried talking to her about it? One on one?” Will had never hosted any kind of seminar, but at the very least he’d occasionally discuss issues with his problem students back at the FBI. 

At least Hannibal seemed amused. “Isn’t she an adult? At the very least she should be able to reach out herself.” 

Will shrugged, not bothering with a response. It wasn’t his job to run the classroom, after all. 

They parted ways once they reached La Sorbonne, Hannibal off to his seminar, and Will off to wandering. He picked a direction at random, and walked. Easily one of his favorite routes was over the Pont Saint-Michel and Pont au Change; the quiet burbling of the Seine was comforting, and the rows of buildings past both bridges, near the Tour Saint-Jacques had a military air about them. Passing them felt a little like walking past a small army of soldiers. 

And so Will enjoyed the nice weather. There was the slightest chill in the air, and for a moment Will could forget Hannibal, and their agreement, and just become another pedestrian ambling the streets. Yes, Hannibal’s card weighed heavily in his wallet, and he wasn’t sure whether he even wanted to buy himself something, let alone _what_ \-- but the sense of freedom was nice. 

Passing by a Gucci store, Will couldn’t help but imagine the look of shock on Hannibal’s face if he’d shown up at La Sorbonne carrying bags of designer clothes-- would he be angry? Probably-- Will would certainly have blown a gasket if his own hard-earned money had been wasted like that. Then again, he was half sure that most of Hannibal’s assets were through some kind of inheritance. These thoughts followed him for several blocks-- he imagined showing up with an Hermes bag, or some Louis Vuitton shoes, or… he really couldn’t name any other designers, but the general trajectory was still the same. 

Then he found a sex shop. High end, by the look of it. 

It wasn’t like he had any particular interest in those kinds of stores, just. He didn’t see them very often in Wolftrap, and almost never in DC. Besides, what did he even need? The lotion soap Hannibal bought worked well enough in the shower, and that did the trick well enough. A few tugs, and he could just let his mind drift off and focus on sensation. It worked for him. 

But it wasn’t like he needed to go in. He could just buy it online-- no, he knew well enough that Hannibal would tear open any packages meant for him in a heartbeat. And it wasn’t as if he needed anything, anyway. Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to look. 

He was an adult man. There was nothing wrong with a consenting adult walking into a sex shop. He knew that. And the employees would hardly care. _They_ were the ones working at a sex shop. If anything, Will would have to be leery of _them_. 

It wasn’t like he was going to buy anything, anyway. He could just take a look. It wasn’t illegal to look. The realization that Will hadn’t had sex in over two years settled heavy in his stomach. He was a grown man who masturbated with shower soap. 

Okay. He’d at least get himself some decent lube. He could buy it, run it home, and be back at La Sorbonne before Hannibal even finished class. No one would have to know. 

Will walked into the shop with his hands buried deep in his pockets, head held high. Immediately he was greeted with a wall of lingerie. At least the employees seemed polite enough to let him shop on his own-- as he walked deeper into the store, the products grew a touch more… intimate. Various handcuffs, some of them of the fuzzy variety; even some kinds of silicone toys of various shapes and sizes that scared the life out of him. The word ‘prostate’ jumped out at him through glitzy pink packaging, and he made a pointed turn away from that wall. With some struggle he found the lubricant section, doing his damnedest to ignore the burning in his cheeks. He grabbed two different looking bottles at random, and brought them to the cashier. 

She was polite enough to only smile and bag his things; he’d barely paid for them and pocketed his wallet before he hurried out the door. He hurried to the nearest train station, realizing with some horror that it was rush hour; hopefully he’d make it back to La Sorbonne in time. 

He did not. 

Will was sweaty, harried, and rushing through a small throng of people when he caught sight of Hannibal outside of the main building. He appeared to be talking to a young woman who looked like a gust of wind could knock her over. She stared hard at the ground, clutching to a bag that looked to be at least half her weight. 

It wasn’t until he got closer that he could hear snippets of their conversation. “You understand the importance of participation, of course. Being hesitant is understandable, but I trust that you’re at least as competent as the rest of the class. Your ideas could inspire another student to write something great; there’s no way of knowing until you try.” Whatever the woman said, Will couldn’t hear her. Her eyes never left her shoes. “Good. Now, I believe that that’s my husband, there.” As if on cue, Will raised an arm and waved. Another crowd of people walked ahead of him before he could reach the pair; by the time they’d passed, the woman was gone. 

Finally, Will managed to reach his so-called husband. “I’m guessing that was your shy student?” 

“It was,” Hannibal replied. “Did you enjoy your time out?” 

“Well enough.” He turned away, watching another group of people leave the building. “Shall we?” 

“Of course.” Taking Will’s hand in his own, Hannibal cut a path to the nearest metro stop; if he made a few extra loops to avoid the nearby newspaper stand, he didn’t mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one's done-- I'm still not sure I'm a fan of the pacing in this chapter, but I can always make edits later. :)


	4. A Moment of Reprieve

**Paris, France**

  
  
  


Hannibal Lecter only had two kinds of active notifications on his phone: the first was a Google alert system to catch any news of himself or Will. The second was tied to a checking account he had created with Crédit Agricole, ensuring that he would remain abreast of every single transaction associated with it. In the two years he had been living with Will in France, he had only seen this notification eight times; the total money spent amounted to less than seventy euros. Thus, when Hannibal checked his phone after class and found that Will’s account had been charged a comparatively extravagant €46.20, his curiosity was piqued. 

Will met with Hannibal after class empty handed; it appeared that whatever Will had bought, he’d prefer to keep it to himself. This simple act of omission created within Hannibal a desire to unravel this new mystery. If Will wouldn’t discuss it, he’d simply have to find out for himself. On the train ride home, Hannibal looked into his recent transactions-- the charge came from a business called ‘Passage du Désir.’ That sounded rather _salacious_. Sliding his eyes toward Will, Hannibal watched him; the slight curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. The distant thoughtfulness of his expression. Was his cunning boy keeping secrets from him? 

Arriving home, there was no packaging in the garbage or recycling bin. There were no evident additions to the rest of the house, but that was hardly surprising. No, Will would have taken any incriminating evidence to the nearest dumpster, well away from prying eyes. That left the only room in the house that Hannibal had not entered. 

Perhaps he could pick the lock and look around Will’s room while he was asleep? Hmm. No, that wouldn’t do-- he’d spent two years fostering trust between them; no point in risking it all for something as small as a toy. Perhaps a lubricant? Hannibal wasn’t entirely sure, and that uncertainty scraped at something inside of him. Will had almost never bought anything for himself; what had changed? Perhaps their move to Paris had ignited something in him? That was a novel thought. One purchase could act as the first domino, something akin to Thomas Aquinus’s concept of first impetus-- instead of God, however, the first impetus was a purchase. 

That left one question: how could Hannibal utilize this change to his advantage? 

“I think I’m gonna turn in for a bit.” Will spoke from the couch, comfortably settled with Saucisse in his lap. “Long day.” 

Something coiled tight in Hannibal’s stomach. Did this have anything to do with Will’s recent purchase? “Is that so? Are you feeling quite alright?” 

“Yeah, just a little tired. I didn’t sleep too well last night.” Will paused, looking Hannibal’s way. “Stay in the house while I’m here?” This was less of a request than a command; they both knew that. How convenient that Hannibal had no intention of leaving. 

“Of course-- unless you’d prefer to return to our probation period.” Hannibal had kept that white rope in his nightstand; it would only take a moment to grab it. 

But Will had developed enough trust in him to take a ‘nap,’ it seemed-- he gave a small chuckle. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor Ingram.” 

“Then nap away, Mister Ingram. I’ll wake you when it’s time for dinner.” 

With that, Will left Saucisse on the couch-- it had become something like her daybed, he had found, and he couldn’t help but enjoy Hannibal’s frustration at all of the fur. Will entered his room, and closed the door as softly as he could. Locked it. Took a deep breath.

He was alone. There was no one watching. Besides, this was completely normal. Almost every single person in the world did it, and most of them did it with something better than shower soap. He felt a stab of guilt, looking at his dresser drawers: was he really doing this now? Before dinner, even? He was acting differently, taking a ‘nap.’ Letting Hannibal out of his sight before they both went to bed. No amount of guilt could keep him from admitting that he was curious, however. He’d only really reviewed the bottles after he’d gotten home from the store, and now he was left with two different lubricants that both promised to ‘increase sensitivity.’ 

What the hell did that even mean? He kicked off his shoes and opened the dresser drawer, as quietly as he could manage. Hidden underneath a few sets of underwear, he found them: two bottles of lube. The first was clear, with equally clear contents; the second was black with gold lettering, and out of more fear than curiosity, he went with the first option. 

He held it in his hand for a moment. Felt the weight of it. Looked at it. No, he wouldn’t do this now-- the risk of Hannibal finding out was too high, thanks to his sense of smell. But tonight. He’d let himself have this tonight. He tucked both bottles deeper into his dresser, before walking back out into the living room; Hannibal was busy stuffing a chicken. 

“Back so soon?” 

“Couldn’t fall asleep, actually,” Will answered, finding his book and sitting back down with Saucisse. She gave a gentle little whine as he adjusted her, and in response he gave her a kiss on her head. “You’ll be fine, sweetie.” She fell back asleep on top of Will’s chest and stomach. 

While Hannibal wouldn’t usually prefer the open-concept kitchen, dining space, and living room, it was fairly convenient for watching Will dawdle around the house. “She’s gotten attached to you already, hm?” 

“Yeah, come to think of it. I think she just needed someone to be gentle with her.” Will stroked her back, and in return she opened her eyes and… stared at him. Interesting. Most dogs considered staring to be aggressive, potentially combative. He stared her down right back, and she just cuddled up against him, blinking slowly. An expression of trust. “Just needed a little love and attention.” She gave a little huff against his chest. 

Hannibal placed the chicken in the oven, before continuing to the vegetables. “And how is it, having a dog? Does it fulfill a paternal need?” 

Will rolled his eyes. Every once in a while, Hannibal would pull this-- he’d try to pick around Will’s mind, settling himself back into the role of a psychiatrist. “Why not find out for yourself? She’s plenty affectionate if you give her the chance to be.” 

Hannibal didn’t respond. They settled into a comfortable silence. 

Dinner was lovely, but that was hardly a surprise. Every night Hannibal would flaunt his culinary skills, and every night Will would thank him and tuck in, feeling the eyes on him more than seeing them. There had to be some sort of sick satisfaction Hannibal felt from Will eating his food, even if it wasn’t the human variety. Will could accept that tradeoff without complaint. “This is delicious, thank you.” He took a napkin and dabbed at his lips, lest the butter on his lips spread any further.

“Naturally.” Hannibal took a few small bites, before, “Did I tell you that we were invited to a gala taking place next month?” 

Will, washing down his meal with a wine Hannibal had picked, had to set his glass down. “And do you intend to go?” 

“I’d prefer that we go together, actually. Think of it as our first event in town.” 

Will gave his ‘husband’ a quick glare. “I’m thinking of it as a test of your self control and my ability to keep you from killing people, actually.” 

Hannibal only smirked. “Quite the strict handler you are.” 

Will snorted. “Quite the devious prisoner you are.” 

But Hannibal would not be deterred. “It would be one night. Three hours, at most. You’re more than welcome to hang on my arm the entire time. It would keep me honest.” 

The very idea of clinging onto Hannibal’s arm for an entire evening was laughable. “Are you saying that I’d be your arm candy?” 

Hannibal raised a brow. “Would you call a spouse arm candy?” 

This time, Will actually laughed. “So I’ll be your trophy husband, in that case?” God, he could imagine it so clearly-- barely able to keep up with the rapid French of local socialites, smiling, stuck clinging onto Hannibal for dear life. 

“Why shouldn’t you be?” For a moment, Hannibal’s expression seemed… serious. Will’s mouth went dry, and he felt a flush spreading at the back of his neck. “All you’d have to do is smile and drink someone else’s champagne, after all.” There was a pause, as Hannibal sipped some of his own wine. “Or is it the idea of being watched and admired that disturbs you?” 

“I don’t think anyone would be _admiring_ me.” Will’s reply came out softer than he’d intended, but it was true-- he was just some scruffy guy who happened to tag along with Hannibal. 

“We can disagree on that point. Perhaps you’ll be persuaded otherwise. So-- would you join me?” 

Will looked down at his dinner, considering. “I’ll do one of these every two or three months.” 

This was hardly the answer Hannibal had preferred, but he would at least take the concession. “Excellent. We’ll have to get you fitted for a tuxedo, in that case.” 

“That’s not necessary. I can just wear something on hand.” 

“I’m afraid it’s a white collar event. Many of them are, unfortunately.” How convenient that Hannibal knew an experienced tailor in town. The moment she had Will’s measurements, she could create any number of ensembles. But to ease Will into his new lifestyle, Hannibal could settle with one. “I believe that my old tailor should be able to help-- I’ll call her tomorrow.” 

Will made the same face he had made when Hannibal had told him the price of their apartment. “That’s… Can’t I just rent something? That’d be easier.” Rent? Wearing someone else’s sweat-stained clothes? A tuxedo not even tailored to fit? Hannibal’s distaste must have shown in his expression, because Will barked out a laugh. “Have you never rented a tux? It’s a lot easier than just buying one-- less expensive, too.” 

Hannibal set his fork and knife down. “A tailored suit is an investment. It can be worn multiple times; it’s an item that can potentially be worn for a lifetime.” 

“It would be worn every two to three months,” Will reminded him, taking another bite, “Not all that often.” 

“A fitting would take an hour of your time, at most,” Hannibal rebutted, “And I would greatly appreciate it.” 

Hannibal watched as Will’s lips twitched. “You’d appreciate spending, what, a thousand euros on me?” 

The cost would be closer to ten thousand euros, but there was no need to correct Will’s assumption. “Again, I see it as an investment. Image is quite important to the elite in this town, and a rented tuxedo would be…” He drew out his pause with an expression of light mortification, “Less than ideal.” 

Will stared at Hannibal’s chin, brows nearing his hairline. “You want to make sure that your trophy husband looks as good as possible.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“How shallow. Doctor Ingram, I’d expect better of you.” Will finished his glass of wine, before pouring himself another. This was a good sign, as far as Hannibal was concerned: lowered inhibitions made it easier for Hannibal to nudge him in the right direction.   
  
“Should a beautiful painting not have an appropriate frame?” 

Will only blinked at him. He felt a blush creep up his neck. Suddenly, the context of their dinner felt… Different. There were candles at the table, fresh flowers, and a fire burning in the living room. Anyone looking in might have thought that this was a date. “I…” He cleared his throat. “Am I the painting in this analogy?” He must have had too much wine, because something in him made his toes curl. 

Hannibal watched him intently, firelight reflecting off his eyes. His voice was low when he said, “Only if you want to be.” 

He was out of his depth, in this… whatever it was. Any analogy Hannibal was trying to make had to be beyond Will, because the only one he could come up with right then was some kind of flirtation. Was Hannibal calling him _beautiful_? The thought was outright bewildering. “Um.” He felt his face-- warm. “I think I’ve had too much wine, actually. That’s…” he raised his glass, before setting it down, “It’s a little strong.” He cleared his throat. 

“Would you like to lie down?” Hannibal was the picture of innocence, seeming only concerned. 

“No, no, I’ll just…” Will stood up, turned away, and bumped into the table. “I’ll just. Be in my room for a bit.” 

“Of course. My apologies, I wasn’t aware that the wine was quite that strong. I’ll be sure to get something else for next time.” 

Will was already halfway to his room when he turned and said, “Yeah, right. Sorry, just… A little dizzy.” 

Hannibal, already standing and clearing Will’s place, replied, “There is nothing to apologize for; feel better soon.” 

Once in the privacy of his own room, Will leaned against the door and took a deep breath. Another. His cheeks still burned. 

  
  


___

  
  


**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  


Will spent most of the day in silence. He sat on one of Du Maurier’s chairs and looked out a nearby window-- at the birds flying by, at the occasional car passing. He kept looking out at the sky, wondering if Molly would ever stare up at it, thinking of him. He wondered if Wally was still going to soccer practice. He thought about a great deal of things, on Bedelia’s chair; he thought about freedom, and the weight that came with it. He thought about killing Frances Dolarhyde, as the news had called him. The Red Dragon. He could remember plunging his knife into Frances so easily; the smell of blood was overpowering, and even more so was the sensation that he was ending the life of a monster. The rush of power he’d felt as Dolarhyde fell to the ground, losing all hope of winning against the two of them. 

He remembered the way Frances Dolarhyde was eaten up by the ink-black gush of his own blood. When Hannibal’s teeth tore at his throat, Will had only felt a vicious sort of pride in him; they were a pair of hyenas on the hunt, and at last they could attack their prey, tear him apart until there was nothing left. In retrospect, all Will could think about was how much it would hurt to have his throat bitten out of him. Choking on all the blood flowing down through his ripped trachea. A hatchet torn through his achilles tendon. The pain must have been unbearable.

The room was a nice, comfortable temperature; still, Will felt cold. He remembered the caged man whose body he’d desecrated, back at the Lecter estate. The way he’d elevated that tortured stranger, strung and pulled him up into an art piece of his own creation. Was he still hanging there, even now? Will knew his knots wouldn’t fall apart that easily; he’d still be there, hanging, a pristine sculpture made of violence; a cadaver who had long been forgotten by society in life, only to be made beautiful in death. 

He had enjoyed killing Frances Dolarhyde, the Red Dragon. Thinking about all of the pain and terror he’d inflicted on Molly and Walter, Will could have killed him all over again. He had enjoyed stringing up the caged man. In so many ways, he was no better than Hannibal, and that knowledge chilled him to the marrow of his bones. 

Will wanted to cry. Scream. Slit Hannibal’s throat, behead him altogether, and return to Quantico with his decapitated head in a bag, a modern-day Perseus. He wanted Hannibal to rot in hell, or at least in the BSHCI. Then again, Will deserved to rot in hell, too. 

He wanted to call Molly, hear her voice one last time. He wanted to tell Walter that he was growing up into such an incredible young man, that he was so, _so_ proud of him. There were so many things that he wanted, all of them just out of reach. 

Will could feel himself turning into a man weighed down by regrets. With a sigh, he stood up and stretched, noting that he was sore-- even where he hadn’t been injured. Hannibal was sat in a nearby chair, pencil and paper in hand. “Ah, are you quite done? I was almost finished rendering the folds on your robe.” 

“Uh.” How long had Will been sitting there? The light seemed different from what it was earlier: warmer, more slanted. Had he really not moved at all? “Yeah, I’m about done. What’re you…?” 

“Just sketching,” Hannibal answered, lowering his paper so that Will could see it. It looked… remarkably good. The man sitting sideways on a chair in Hannibal’s drawing looked elegant, thoughtful. He could have been deep in some philosophical quandary. By comparison, the flesh-and-blood Will looked like lukewarm shit. 

“How flattering,” Will joked, well aware that there were dark circles under his eyes. It wasn’t like he’d been sleeping well, and god knew his wounds made him look akin to a medical cadaver. “That’s… huh. Not bad.” The man Hannibal had drawn was nothing like Will; he looked like something out of a baroque painting. He couldn’t imagine himself looking anything like Hannibal’s depiction. 

Hannibal touched at the sides of the paper gently, as if trying to memorize the feel of it on his fingertips. “May I keep it?” 

It wasn’t like Will had made the drawing. This was Hannibal’s creation. “Sure, go for it.” It was a little strange having a hand-drawn portrait of him, sure, but Will knew well enough that Hannibal was capable of much worse. “So.” 

“Yes?” 

“Well. About, uh. Clothes.” 

Ah, yes. Will had made himself quite comfortable in his robe for some time-- Hannibal couldn’t help but admire the way it draped off of his shoulders, almost akin to the eri of a geisha; accentuating the delicate curve of Will’s trapezius. But of course they could both only sit around in bathrobes for so long. “They’re already taken care of; I have a tailor in London who has been kind enough to send a few preliminary sets of shirts and trousers for you, as well as some additional articles for me. I’m certain we’ll have enough to at least make it to France.” 

Will blinked, his mind still a little foggy from his hours of reverie. “And that’s… I mean. Do I owe you anything?” How exactly was this going to work? Hopefully he could repay Hannibal for this, but judging by the words ‘tailor’ and ‘London,’ Will suspected that he’d need to save up. 

Hannibal was quick to reject the notion, however. “Not at all. These are simply requirements for living, let alone living comfortably. Think of them as a gift.” 

“A gift from the man I pushed off of a cliff.” The ridiculousness of their situation hit Will in the stomach. Maybe Hannibal was well and truly certifiably insane. At this point, Will knew he was halfway there himself. 

“You forget that you fell with me.” There was a morbid romance in Will’s attempted double suicide, and Hannibal would hardly let his apparent partner ignore that. Hannibal was half sure that it was Will’s last attempt at living according to some code of ethics. At least, he hoped it was. “Did you feel that you deserved to die?” 

Will seemed unamused. “I thought we were talking about clothes, Doctor Lecter?” 

“Forgive me.” Hannibal’s smile was in no way remorseful. “There’s no reason for you to pay me whatsoever. I have plenty of money in various bank accounts, more than enough to last both of us a lifetime.” He was the very last Hannibal Lecter. It wasn’t as if he had any descendents to consider-- why not end the lineage with flair? 

There was a moment of silence as Will stared at Hannibal’s shoes, brows furrowed in thought. “You’re telling me that we’re just going to live off your inheritance?” 

“Yes.” 

“No… kind of employment?” Nothing? What the hell were they supposed to _do_? 

“I believe you’ll be employed in keeping the world safe from me. Does that not suffice?” Perhaps Will hadn’t considered Hannibal’s offer-- mutual imprisonment. Hannibal was kept from killing, and Will was kept from living his own life. It was a fair trade, at least for now. If a trigger were to appear down the road, though-- why not take advantage of it? 

Will opened his mouth. Shut it again. “That’s…” no, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Was that the trade off he was entering into? Being some sort of reverse bodyguard for the most prolific killer he’d ever met? That wasn’t a job so much as it was some kind of prison sentence; knowing Hannibal, there would always be the chance of him slipping away, of hiding some kind of resource from him. He’d have to be careful. “We… would need to lay down some ground rules.” 

Hannibal crossed his legs. He looked like some kind of emperor, dressed as he was in his robe. “Go on.” 

“I can check all of your belongings. Bags, clothes, anything. You’re forfeiting all of your privacy.” 

Hannibal only raised a brow. “I believe I’ve counseled victims of abuse about forfeiture of privacy.” 

Will gave a crooked half-smile. “You’re not a victim of anything.” 

Hannibal gave a mirrored smirk in reaction. “Perhaps you’re right about that.” A pause, while he looked Will up and down. There was likely nothing that he could hide; this could be used to his advantage. “I forfeit all of my privacy, in that case. Everything on my person is yours for the taking.” His smirk only grew. 

There was no need to word it like _that_ , but Will understood the gesture. “Okay. And where you go, I go.” 

“How possessive you are.” 

Will only glared. “I can make more rules later, if needed.”

Hannibal touched at his drawing again, wondering idly if Will might ever pose for him again. Perhaps one day he would even do so willingly. “Preferably nothing that restricts my freedom unnecessarily.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to stop you from being a pretentious asshole.” 

Hannibal looked at Will as if he had hung the stars in the sky. “You’re the only person who has ever called me that and lived.” 

Stretching again, Will raised his injured arm as high as he could, before gently letting it back down. “I thought Will Graham was dead?” 

Hannibal smiled, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “Is that so? I had thought he’d been reborn into something else.” 

  
  
  


____

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  


Breakfast was ready moments before Will even walked out of his room, tired and disheveled. Hannibal couldn’t help but note the careful steps Will took, the drowsiness that hindered his every move. He was the first to break their silence, shooting Will a simple, “Good morning.” William Graham, ever the quintessence of grace, grumbled and sat down at his chair, holding his head. Had the wine actually been that strong? Hannibal didn’t believe so-- at the time he’d assumed Will was just afraid of his own attraction, but there was always the chance he could be wrong. “Are you still feeling ill?” He didn’t have any lectures today; it wouldn’t be hard to work from home and ensure his jailer was well taken care of. There was also the strangest scent to him, barely noticeable at first, but increasingly obvious as Hannibal walked closer: peppermint? Some kind of cannabidiol? A further mystery unfolded itself. 

“No, just-- had some trouble sleeping last night,” Will answered quietly, crossing his arms and laying his head on them. His voice was low, scratchy. Some part of Hannibal wanted to reach into his throat and stroke his vocal chords with his fingertips. Instead, he set Will’s coffee down next to him with a gentle hand. ‘Trouble sleeping’ was a good euphemism for staying up until god-knew-when and stroking his oversensitive dick. He needed to check the active ingredients in that lube, because he hadn’t felt that thoroughly wrecked by his own hand in decades; he still felt the occasional bite of it on his skin, a strange tingling feeling. He would die before admitting any of this to his housemate, however. He lifted his head at the blessed smell of coffee, before chugging it down in one go. “Thanks.” 

Hannibal eyed Will’s drained coffee and untouched breakfast (eggs benedict on whole grain toast, with a touch of the creamiest goat cheese he had ever found outside of his childhood home in Lithuania, as well as some thyme, sage, pepper, and a dash of salt). “Is your stomach upset?” Hannibal had found the goat cheese at a nearby farmer’s market, and he’d be damned if it went unappreciated. He placed his palm on Will’s forehead, wondering if he couldn’t smell the sweetness of a fever coming on. 

On Will’s end, mortification settled hard into the confines of his skull; was he really acting that differently? “My stomach’s fine.” He swatted away Hannibal’s hand before reaching down for breakfast. “Anyway. We need to talk about the gala.” 

“If you’d like.” Satisfied at least that no one was sick, Hannibal sat at his seat and took a sip of his coffee. 

“You need to stay within eyesight of me at all times,” Will began, “And you’re going to let me check your pockets whenever I see fit.” 

Hannibal pursed his lips, considering. “It sounds as if you don’t intend to remain by my side the entire night.” 

Will took a bite of his breakfast, and after chewing, answered, “That’s right. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to put up with being dragged after you.” It sounded like hell, and even if Will didn’t have to answer, he’d still be expected to sit and listen. He’d never been particularly polite. “This is good, by the way. Is this mozzarella?” 

“A very fine goat cheese, actually. I’m quite lucky to have gotten it,” Hannibal preened at the attention, as well as the continued evolution of Will’s taste buds. He was beginning to understand the importance of quality. “And I would prefer that you at least take the time to meet my colleagues. They’re understandably quite curious about you.” 

Will took another bite of his breakfast, felt the slide of egg white down his throat. “And what have you told them about me, exactly?” 

Hannibal had cut into his eggs with a fork and knife, spilling a golden yolk onto his plate. Ah, the satisfaction of cutting open something lovingly made; the yolk bled through his toast, and he couldn’t help but remember the same pleasure amplified when he had cut through a person’s flesh. “I’ve told them that you’re a very talented psychologist with a passion for research. Your work had exhausted you so thoroughly that it was only right for me to spirit you away to France, where you could relax.” 

Taking another bite of his toast and biting into the yolk of it, Will had to hurry to catch the yolk with his mouth before it spilled onto his plate and shirt. This distraction did well to hide the heat of embarrassment flourishing within him, because, shit, Hannibal hadn’t lied about him being a trophy husband. What was he in the eyes of Hannibal’s colleagues? Some twink who’d slept his way into a comfortable lifestyle? Once he’d handled the yolk to the best of his ability-- he’d licked it off his chin and hand while staring at the table below him-- he asked, “So to them I’m on some kind of permanent vacation.” 

“You’re taking a sabbatical for your mental health, yes,” Hannibal replied. Will looked him right in the eyes, and they both burst into laughter. 

As always, Will offered to tidy up; as always, his offer was rejected. They settled into their routine: Will on the couch reading with Saucisse, Hannibal preparing some lecture or other in his office. Will set down his book, staring up at the ceiling. At some point they’d reached a point of peace, being able to live and breathe around one another like their whole relationship wasn’t one misstep away from bloodshed. The odds had been against them since they’d agreed to their deal two years ago, but there they were. Through all the misery they’d shared and all the freedom they’d sacrificed, they were… here. Maybe not fully happy, because that was well out of reach for men like them, but content. 

Then, offhand, Will checked the local news and was greeted with the sight of a woman hanged by her own small intestine off the Pont Des Arts. A man found fully impaled by an antique spear in the middle of the Saint-Chapelle. Another woman, her hands tied together with her own hair, sat naked in a pleading position in front of the L’église de la Madeleine. Their bodies were posed beautifully, lovingly, each of them a rich visual composition. 

Bile rose in his throat. It wasn’t the horror that bothered him; that much he had long ago learned to live with. The familiarity of these murders, the artful intention behind each of them-- they made him nauseous. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! Honestly, a lot of this one kind of wrote itself-- a lot of these interactions were ones that I'd had in mind since before I even started considering the plot of this fic, and I'm so glad that they could finally be put to use! I hope you guys enjoy it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments! 
> 
> Finally, I actually have a fandom Tumblr that you're welcome to follow for chapter updates and general authorial griping! It's https://garden-beast.tumblr.com/ :D


	5. A Long Day

**Paris, France**

  
  


The first victim was hanged incorrectly; her arms were supposed to be pinned to the side of the bridge, but somewhere in between hanging her up and the police taking evidence photos, the pins fell out; her arms, once posed perfectly to show… _something_ , were down. A masterpiece ruined by one clumsy paint stroke. She was pale, bloated, clearly dead for some time; he had waited for this moment. Kept her body in a cage, or a freezer, or something, waiting to create his first spectacle for the public. Her tongue and eyes stuck out obscenely. She was eviscerated, with the rest of her organs hanging below her; the small intestine acted as a macabre rope. What was she? An image of a hanged woman? A criminal deserving of contempt? He couldn’t quite tell. Not just with photos. All he knew was that she was arranged to be seen, and seen she was. 

The second victim was better constructed. He had been impaled fully, on a long sharp spear that had entered his rectum and left his mouth. The violence and pain of it must have been staggering. He had died impaled on that spear, and his corpse was brought to the Saint-Chapelle as an art installation. He was a sacrifice; he was given the same disrespect and misery as his predecessor, only differently arranged. Another criminal? Some kind of sacrifice? His blood had been spilled all around him, and the killer had left some kind of millet for the pigeons to peck up. The man was stood at the center of an avian infested scene of carnage, and the birds around acted as his silent witnesses. This was his design. “ _See me_.” 

The latest victim was charred, burnt. Likely roasted alive. She was sat in front of L’église de la Madeleine as if in some sort of twisted genuflection. Her own hair, cut before white-hot execution, was tied around her wrists. There were strands left around her neck, as well. Imprisoned, licked by the flames of hellfire, a sinner facing divine punishment-- or was she? This was why Jack had always insisted that Will visit crime scenes in person: the pictures just… Didn’t do these crime scenes justice. They didn’t lay bare the evidence, only concealed it within the confines of a photo. Will sighed, looked away, before turning back to the photo. Another public spectacle, this time burned-- they all died differently. There was no way he could have them die the same-- there needed to be variation. No one kind of death would suffice. Will circumambulated this killer, picking up pieces of his psyche and pulling them into himself; he could only hope he wasn’t circling Hannibal. 

But what if he was? How much freedom had Will given Hannibal since moving to Rouen? They had separate rooms-- plenty of opportunity for Hannibal to slip out in the night. He’d made the mistake of _trusting_ Hannibal. With his money, with his time, his resources-- all of it. When was the last time he had checked Hannibal’s receipts to confirm that he’d bought his meat from a butcher? 

The room shrunk around him until he suffocated. How much danger was Paris even in? How had Will let Hannibal _slip_? 

Standing up on shaky legs, Will picked up Saucisse and set her down in his room. He closed the door. Moved to the kitchen, plucked a knife out of the knife block. Took a moment to be grateful for the knife block, because if he were being honest with himself, he didn’t know where the silverware was in this kitchen. Steeled himself. 

It was time. Will moved slowly to Hannibal’s office, grateful that he was wearing socks-- no tapping of his shoes to give him away. He stepped in, took in his surroundings: stuffed bookshelves, the occasional painting, a massive desk that took up half the room. Hannibal sat there, facing the window, fingers typing away on his keyboard. 

It occurred to Will that he hadn’t checked Hannibal’s laptop in ages. He didn’t even recognize half the shit in this office-- how had he been so lax? “Will,” Hannibal said quietly, only turning his head a fraction. “Feeling better?” Perhaps Hannibal received his answer when he felt the cold blade of a knife at his throat. “Or not?” 

There was a moment of silence, as Will summoned the strength to ask what he’d been dreading. “When did you kill them?” When he was asleep? It had to have been while Will was sleeping, there was no other time, no other way--

Hannibal understood the context immediately. Slowly, he pulled his arms away from his keyboard. “I didn’t.” The chances of Will believing him were understandably low, but it was the truth. “As much as I admire the killer’s eye for composition, I cannot take credit for it.” 

Will held the knife closer to his throat. He could already feel the blade biting into Hannibal’s skin. Could imagine killing him so clearly-- it would only be a second. Blood, spurting everywhere; a struggle; a hard _thump_ as his corpse fell to the ground. “Don’t bullshit me. What have we been eating?” 

“Animal meat,” Hannibal answered calmly, his breathing even. The only one in the room who seemed shaken at all was WIll. “I believe I told you, Will, I wouldn’t kill anyone unless you asked it of me.” The pressure on his throat didn’t lessen; the blade grew warmer with his body heat. “You’re welcome to search anything like you’d like to confirm. If you’d be so kind as to lower the knife?” 

The knife stayed where it was, even as it trembled in an uncertain hand. “Exactly how am I supposed to believe you?” 

That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? After all they’d been through together, it was natural for Will to be suspicious. Slightly more important, however, was the steel advantage Will had over him. Hannibal was slow to move his hand. Delicate. He touched Will’s knife-wielding hand gingerly, not unlike a lover. “Has our time together here meant nothing?” 

“It means,” Will’s voice shook, “That you’ve been given enough freedom to get away with it.” 

Hannibal’s hand remained gentle. Soothing. “So it does.” With that, Hannibal wrenched Will’s hand away from his throat and turned around, shoving against Will’s injured shoulder back, making him lose his balance. Hannibal dove after him, before grabbing both Will’s wrists in his own hands. He sat straddled atop his would-be killer, pinning him down. The knife remained in Will’s hand, and Hannibal remained still. “Is it not possible for there to be another killer in Paris? Am I the only person you think is capable of savagery?” 

Will only grunted, struggling like a wild animal to get free. If Hannibal had a third hand, he would have considered stroking Will’s cheek with it. For now, however, he remained still, using his weight and position to his advantage. He leaned hard onto Will’s wrists, and could hear the other man hiss in pain. 

Hannibal had finally gained the upper hand; now to drive his point home. He made sure Will’s eyes met his own before he continued. “I don’t intend to hurt you,” he spoke softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Though I must admit I’m rather offended, that you wouldn’t have enough faith in me to keep a promise.” He stayed where he was, eyes on Will’s, neither of them moving. 

After a few labored breaths, Will answered, voice hushed, “They’re too similar.”

“Does it concern you that someone else is out there? Someone like us?” 

Will struggled again, gripping hard onto his knife. After several fruitless seconds of this, he gritted out, “I’m nothing like you.” 

They both knew he was lying. “And yet you’re the one who initiated this. Always so quick to fight.” Every so often it felt like this: like Hannibal had taken in a feral creature two years ago, and had to domesticate it, little by little. 

Fittingly, Will bared his teeth and tried kicking his legs, bucking his hips. The perfect image of a cornered animal. “Let go of me-- you can’t just--” 

“You’re more than welcome to examine my things. My phone, computer-- all of my effects are yours for perusing.” Hannibal paused. “But I must ask that you stop trying to kill me, at least for now.” 

Will went quiet, before finally closing his eyes and going limp. Ah-- there it was. The moment Will accepted his words, submitted to his judgment. Pure satisfaction. “If it’s not you, then we’ve still got an issue. People are in danger.” 

Hannibal remained where he was, hands still on his partner’s wrists. “People are in danger all the time. Such is the risk of living.” 

Will rolled his eyes. “If you’re just gonna sit on top of me and philosophize, you can kill me now.” Both of them had a short laugh, the tension dissipating. “You’re still back on probation, though.” 

How precious that his wild thing thought that was a punishment. “I can live with that.” Hannibal remained where he was, shifting his grip so that both of his companion’s wrists were kept in one hand. He used the other to reach down and stroke at Will’s face; he felt the silken skin behind his ear. The scratch of his stubble. “Do you intend on catching him?” 

Closing his eyes, Will leaned into Hannibal’s hand; slowly, surely, Will had grown docile with him. Hannibal said nothing, only waiting for a response. “I don’t know. Do you intend on letting me up?” 

Hannibal stood to his feet, offering a hand. Will took it. “Will you be alright?” Will didn’t answer. He just held the knife in his hands, staring down at it. “Will.” 

“It’s Henry now. Right, Doctor Ingram?” If nothing else, ‘Henry’ managed a pained smile, eyes down.

“It’s Lucius. No need for formalities at this stage.” There was a moment of silence. Will kept his eyes on the knife; Hannibal kept his eyes on his partner. 

“I should put this away.” 

____

**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

It started with overly fancy boxes in the mail. The packaging was sturdy, a hefty cardboard, and inside of the boxes was more tissue paper than Will had ever seen in one place-- he kept having to tug at it and set it aside just to find the actual items they’d protected. “This is unnecessary.” It was many things, but only the words ‘unnecessary’ and ‘egregious’ came to mind. He pulled at some more tissue paper until it tore. 

“It ensures that the garments remain flat and fresh through international travel, actually.” Hannibal turned the page of his newspaper, sitting imperiously in nothing but a robe. “You’ll be able to wear them without even a cursory ironing-- convenient, no?” 

Finally done with the tissue paper, Will pulled a neatly pressed and folded button down shirt from the box. It looked pristine. “How much did this cost?” 

“Should I be saying Merry Christmas?” Bedelia, impeccably dressed as always, nursed her morning cup of coffee in her hands, lip curling into a smirk. It occurred to Will that opening these boxes on the floor, cross-legged, might have presented the wrong image. 

Hannibal answered in Will’s stead, not even deigning to look at her; he was more interested in the society section of his newspaper. “Perhaps ‘happy birthday’ might be more appropriate.” 

Bedelia and Will rolled their eyes in unison. Undeterred, Will repeated his question: “Hannibal. How much did all of this cost?” 

The answer was a little over six thousand English pounds, but there was no way that he would admit to it. “Would you prefer to ride a plane in nothing but a bathrobe?” 

“I’d prefer to ride a plane in a t-shirt and jeans. I’m sure there’s a Goodwill somewhere around here, right?” 

It was Hannibal’s turn to share a look of disgust with Bedelia; he didn’t dignify the question with a response. Will, realizing a lost cause when he saw one, went back to opening boxes of tissue paper. “A lot of button downs,” he mentioned, hanging onto the slimming hope that Hannibal had thought to buy something comfortable for an international flight. Then again— it wasn’t like it was his money, but… it was strange, letting Hannibal pick everything out for him. He almost felt like some kind of doll. 

“Yes, I noticed you have a preference for them,” Hannibal replied, folding his newspaper into his lap. “I believe I should have a few, as well.” His tailored suits could wait until he left the country— no need to be too conspicuous. 

Setting down the shirts, Will turned back to Hannibal. “Did you already buy them?” How far ahead had Hannibal planned? 

“I have. We’re set to leave late next month; that should give us ample time to heal, provided that you stop trying to be your own physical therapist.” Hannibal shot his co-conspirator a disapproving look. He couldn’t count the amount of times Will had tried picking up heavy objects with his bad arm, tried lifting it unnecessarily. He had torn stitches on more than one occasion, and yet he still tried to act as if he weren’t injured. In some way, it was almost sweet; if they were in the comparative safety of their home Rouen, Hannibal might have considered indulging Will in his self destructive behavior. As it was, he was hindering their escape. 

Will didn’t answer; instead, he stared down at his new shirt, feeling the fabric. An increasingly familiar expression reappeared on his face, one Hannibal had come to understand was the harbinger of a sulk: he was thinking of his past life. In many ways, Will’s regret and shame were quite pleasing to the eye. He was fighting a losing battle against himself, torn between his atrophying morality and his true self. Hannibal wished yet again that he could crawl inside Will’s skull and watch his thoughts drift by, weave them together into a perfect facsimile of Will’s psychology; a twisted Arachne of the mind. Ownership of the most intimate kind. Instead, he leaned forward and brushed his fingers through Will’s hair. “What are you thinking about?”

Will flinched away from his touch. Fair enough; Hannibal had overstepped. “I’m thinking about Dolarhyde, actually. You said a lot of the same things to the both of us.” 

“You two have your similarities.” 

Ah, yes, the tension of the Masseter muscle-- Will was upset. His whole body went rigid, and he set down his shirt. “We had you in common, yes.” 

Hannibal only smiled. “Similar urges, as well. He chose to act on them.” If Will was embroiled in the battlefield of his own mind, then Hannibal was an interloper, playing his own game all the while. It never ceased to be interesting, pulling him apart, finding out what made him tick. When Will looked him in the eye, then, with a glare that would have downed lesser men, Hannibal stared back.

“He acted based on your advice, Doctor Lecter.” So Hannibal had been relegated to his title, then. He must have hit a nerve. “You infected him. With your thinking, with your ideas. You took the darkness that lived in him and helped it fester, because you wanted to.” Will maintained eye contact, and for a moment Hannibal wondered if this conversation would end in blows. “He was a toy to you-- you wound him up, and watched him go.” Hannibal only shrugged-- what point was there in denying it? In response, Will stood up-- threw the shirt at Hannibal, hard. Walked close enough to him that, standing, he loomed over the otherwise taller man. A clear display of a threat. “I am not your toy. Do you understand? You’re not going to reach into my mind and fiddle around with it. I’m not some fucking doll you get to play with.” 

Will had invaded his space, stood over him like an animal ready to attack. Feral thing. At least as interesting as Frances Dolarhyde had been interesting, of course-- anyone willing to take out entire families at once warranted at least some intrigue. Will Graham, however: Will Graham was another beast altogether. Entirely outside any taxonomic structure Hannibal had ever known. Endlessly empathetic, wholly kind, vicious to the point of hurling them both off a cliff. Hannibal would kill for him, raze empires in his name. Sitting under him, looking up, he felt akin to a supplicant staring at his deity. A god of violence and destruction. “I understand.” 

“Good.” 

The rest of the day went smoothly; Bedelia declined to join them for supper.

They readied themselves for bed, a new routine developing: Will showered, then Hannibal, and once they were both fully prepared for bed Will would tie them together. It was the best part of the night: watching Will’s deft hands move and adjust the rope as needed, twisting and turning it around the both of them. How he would occasionally glance at Hannibal’s face, checking for any indication of pain. After everything they had been through, he was still gentle. During these moments he wanted to press forward, dip his nose into the dip between Will’s neck and shoulder, place a small cluster of kisses there. He could wait. 

Once they settled into bed, the real hunger settled in. With past lovers, Hannibal had been content to mirror their behavior, act just as affectionate as they did. He had never had any particular desire to touch them, so much as a preference to avoid awkwardness. With Will, however, draped in only bathrobes, every inch of distance was entirely too much. Part of him would have preferred to cut him open, pull out his innards, curl into his abdominal cavity to wait out the night as he’d done to a bear as a teenager. The rest of him wanted to reach across Will’s body and hold him close. To examine every plane and curve of his body with his fingertips. To _know_ him, as only lovers knew one another’s physique. Hannibal had heard of the concept of skin hunger-- touch starvation, a typical issue in those who haven’t touched another person in months, years. There were many times when he had hungered for human skin, and many times when he’d satisfied that hunger through dining. Here, however, all he could do was watch. Wait. 

“You’re doing it again.” Will faced toward the ceiling, looking into nothing. 

“I prefer lying on this side; you happen to be the only thing available to look at.” This was a bald-faced lie, but there was no way his bedside companion could know better. 

“Then close your eyes.” Hannibal closed his eyes. This didn’t stop him from smiling, however. “Stop smiling.” 

“Am I not allowed to express joy? I wasn’t aware that my prison guard would be quite so strict.” This earned Hannibal a quiet laugh. Once they’d settled back into silence, he spoke again. “I’ve never considered you to be a doll.” 

A pause. “It’s hard not to feel that way when you’re the one choosing what I wear.” 

“Are the clothes not to your liking?” 

Will fidgeted. “They’re fine-- they’re very nice, of course. And it’s not like I’m not grateful. Just…” 

Aha, the crux of the matter. “You’d prefer to choose them yourself.” 

Some kind of tension was expelled out of Will with one large sigh. “Yeah. Exactly. It just feels… Invasive, somehow?” 

“We’ll have to get you a card once we get to France.” 

This garnered an entirely new reaction. “Wait-- what? No, I mean--” Will blinked, shifted in the bed. Hannibal could feel his heart rate elevate where their wrists were tied together. “Am I getting, um. A budget?” 

Hannibal shrugged. “If that’s what you want. I’d hardly expect you to misuse any funds.”

“Still. It’s a little…” Will paused, half hoping Hannibal might finish the thought for him. “Embarrassing, I guess.”

“Do you feel emasculated?” 

Will snorted. “No, and I don’t feel a desire to sleep with my mother, either.” They both shared a quiet chuckle. “It doesn’t feel reciprocal. It’s not money that I’ve earned.”

Of course. Will had earned every red cent he had ever touched— nothing came free to him in his life. This must have felt too easy; the other shoe was waiting to drop. “It’s more fair in your hands than in mine,” Hannibal replied, “I’ve inherited it. The only thing I did to earn most of my fortune was leave my mother’s womb.”

Will turned toward Hannibal, the silhouette of a rueful smile on his face. “That fits pretty well into your ‘rebirth’ metaphor, actually.”

“Perhaps you’ll be a privileged aristocrat in the next life.” Nothing was impossible, not then-- they could be anything they chose. The future was an open horizon; they just had to pick a direction. 

Will didn’t answer for a minute, two; he only stared up at the ceiling, face blank. “You don’t have to do this, you know. The money.” 

“I know.” 

They were silent through the rest of the night. 

  
  


___

**Paris, France**

It occurred to Will that he should have given Hannibal’s room a thorough check before they’d fully moved in, but better late than never. Walking in for the first time, he found-- a portrait of himself, from when they were stuck at Bedelia’s house. Huh. He actually kept it. He’d framed it as well, in some overly fancy gold bullshit that probably cost more than he cared to imagine. It was hung on the wall across from the bed, just next to a chair and bookshelf. “You really went all out with the new furniture, huh?” he commented, noting the rich green velvet of the reading chair, the size of the bed. “Why didn’t you just bring the one from Rouen? That would’ve been easier.” 

“You mentioned returning to Rouen every weekend. I’d hardly want to sleep on the floor there, so I got a slightly larger one.” It fit the room well, at least. 

Will looked up, finding one large iron hook above the bed where he’d expected to see a massive chandelier. “Still waiting on the chandelier to come in?” Knowing Hannibal, it would cost upwards of ten thousand euros and look like something out of Versailles. 

Hannibal shrugged, adding, “I considered it, but perhaps a chandelier might be too much for the room. I imagine we’ll find a hanging centerpiece at some point.” 

Well, then. Alright. It was hardly Will’s place to comment on the interior design of the house, even if the lone hook reminded him of the grisly end to _And Then There Were None_. As long as Hannibal wasn’t hanging people from it, he’d be satisfied. “Fair enough.” The cursory check-through done, he rolled up his sleeves and prepared for a more thorough examination. “Can I start with your dresser?” 

“That depends. Do you intend on making a mess of it?” 

Will didn’t bother to respond; they both knew the answer was ‘yes.’ Pulling open the dresser (it a dark wood, and covered in gold rococo appliqués), he began with the dress shirts. 

Four hours later, with clothes strewn about the room, the dresser half disassembled, the mattress flipped, and the closet in a state of complete disarray, Will decided that he was content with his check. As far as he could tell, there was nothing Hannibal had to hide-- in his bedroom, at least. Moving aside a suit, he sat down on his partner’s bed and took a deep breath. “You really don’t need half of these clothes, you know.” 

Hannibal, who had been refolding a small pile of trousers, answered, “And you didn’t necessarily need to rifle through my wardrobe, but here we are.” Will conceded that point by gingerly picking up a white dress shirt and giving it a cursory fold, before Hannibal sighed and set down his work. “Please give that to me. I can teach you how to fold a dress shirt.” 

“Wha-- seriously?” It looked fine. Not quite as it did before Will had pulled it out of its drawer and inspected it, but no one’s dresser needed to look like a shop display. Still, it was Hannibal’s, and so he allowed the other man to take his own shirt back, set it on the bed, and start folding. 

By the time Hannibal was done with it, it looked as if he’d just purchased it. So Hannibal’s dresser needed to look like a shop display. 

Fair enough. Will followed his apparent teacher’s directions, making a slightly crooked copy of Hannibal’s original. Hannibal was polite enough to leave it despite the disappointment etched on his face. They spent the afternoon in this manner, and by the time evening rolled around the room looked pristine. Will took a moment to lie back on the bed, shocked by his own exhaustion. “Okay. You’re not hiding anything in your room.” 

Hannibal followed suit, and the two laid down next to one another, staring up at the ceiling. That was one big hook. “How nice to be trusted,” Hannibal answered, lacing his fingers together above his stomach. 

Unmoving, Will moved his eyes toward Hannibal. Considered that the man next to him had committed egregious medical malpractice with him, murdered an inordinate number of people, and tried to have his family killed. “I think I trust you about the right amount.” Hannibal must have been considering roughly the same thing, because they both ended up laughing. 

“We should do the same to your room. See how you like it.” 

“I’m not the one who went around killing people.” 

Hannibal peered at Will out of the corner of his eye. “There are several corpses that might disagree.” 

“Innocent people,” Will amended, “And it’s not like they didn’t deserve it.” 

“I could say the same thing.” 

“We’re not going to have this conversation.” Every time they brought up murder, Hannibal would pull him into his perverse brand of reasoning, and every time Will had to shut it down before either of them considered violence. 

Hannibal went quiet, rolling onto his side and facing Will, arm propping his head up. “Are you going to stay the night in here?” 

Will seemed to consider the idea for a moment, before replying, “Probably. Do you mind?” 

“Not at all.” How wonderfully convenient that Hannibal had invested in the larger bed; he still remembered the occasional complaints from Will about the size of the full bed they’d slept in when they had first moved out to Rouen. Given that Will’s room still retained that bed, it would only be appropriate. 

“Can Saucisse stay in here, too?” This was where Hannibal hesitated. Dog fur? He could accept it on his couch, but in his _bed_? Will must have caught on, because he added, “We can always get her a dog bed.”

Hannibal could live with a dog bed. “She can stay in the room, in a dog bed.”

And so they were decided: Will would be staying in Hannibal’s room, at least until he could rule him out as the local serial killer. Not for the first time, it occurred to him how strange his life had become since meeting Doctor Lecter-- well. Doctor Ingram, now. The man in question was the first to get up from the bed, stretching his back and arms. The move pulled his shirt taut against his back, and for a moment Will could almost see the musculature there, broad and firm. He remembered when Hannibal had carried him to his own house all those years ago, lifting him like it was nothing. They weren’t all that different in heights, but the same couldn’t be said of physical strength. The brute power of the man was astounding-- the occasional reminder that the only way Will would be able to kill him was through strategy. Physical force alone would only get him manhandled until he couldn’t fight back; he’d had to relearn that lesson that very morning. 

At the time, he had been half convinced that his wrists would break, under the weight of him; he had never been held down that thoroughly before-- unable to move short of kicking his legs, pinned and helpless. He considered the musculature that had held him down, Hannibal’s body straddling him. How easily Will had been overpowered. An unfamiliar feeling lanced through his spine and stomach, and he decided to stop that train of thought then and there. “I think I’m gonna shower up before dinner. Long day.” 

“Of course.” 

Will kept the shower lukewarm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, here it is! I still feel like I should actually get to the real plot already, but half the fun of writing this fic is in rendering their relationship, and the always-changing nature of Will's feelings. I pinky swear more plot is coming next chapter, so it won't just be them talking to each other (and bickering, and considering murdering one another). I did want to really detail their relationship in regards to finances-- I think of Will as a very independent character, so this would definitely be an uncomfortable sore spot. 
> 
> I just can't help it, their relationship is so interesting! :)


	6. Perchance to Dream

**Paris, France**

Will slept beautifully-- Hannibal couldn’t say he was surprised. How long had it been? A year and three months, since they had last shared a bed? Whatever the span of time, it had been entirely too long. Hannibal had missed the soft sound of his breathing, the slow expansion and contraction of his abdomen that followed the quiet rhythm of his breath. Hannibal had been right in making their dinner heavy, with thick slices of veal, a strong red wine, plenty of pasta. Factoring in the effort Will had put into searching his belongings and cleaning them up, he had a powerful recipe for exhaustion. Will had tied them together with practiced hands, every move unconscious muscle memory, before finally lying on his back and closing his eyes. Saucisse, to her merit, remained quiet in her bed. 

And so, Hannibal was alone, able to watch the involuntary twitches in Will’s face, the occasional roll of his shoulders-- he had almost forgotten the scent of his companion in his sheets. Soap, sweat; shampoo, conditioner; wine from their dinner. He was an olfactory tableau in addition to being a feast for the eyes. Will, in a set of cotton pajamas Hannibal had purchased for him, in his bed; after eating his dinner, cooked and prepared by his hands. It had been two years since they had entered their agreement, and two years since Will Graham had subsisted off of anything that wasn’t Hannibal’s careful choice. Distantly, he wondered if this was how Pygmalion might have felt with his magnum opus statue-- the cells and fats and muscles in his body were powered by him; his brain, the engine that ran the most stunning and lovely mind in the world, given nourishment exclusively from him. Everything that fed, clothed, and housed him, was Hannibal’s. He slept wonderfully. 

Will did not. 

_He was standing on the bluff of Hannibal’s house, Frances Dolarhyde’s throat in his hands. Choking him. This way was more direct; more intimate. He could look into the Red Dragon’s eyes, and see him-- see the fear, the fury, the storm behind his eyes that Will could feel percolating in his own skull; the water of the ocean crashed against the cliffside. Water sloshed behind his eyes. Poured out of him-- his eyes, his ears, the storm had manifested inside of him; in his brain, spilling out until it dripped onto Dolarhyde, into his open mouth. Dolarhyde struggled, but they both knew it was futile. Will was no longer himself, or only himself-- he had been replaced by a gushing storm, sloshing from one side of his skull to the other, bracken water pouring out of his face in waterfalls._

_He was unrelenting, he was powerful, akin to a god. He hunched over Dolarhyde and squeezed the life out of him, taking from him every last breath of air until his eyes rolled back; the storm was inevitable._

_Frances Dolarhyde was beneath him; Will’s hands curled around his throat and pressed. Dolarhyde’s hands pulled at Will’s, but there was no point-- every movement of his was an act of futility._

_Hands on both of his shoulders. The warmth of a presence behind him, standing close. The hands on his shoulders pressed. Will’s hands on Dolarhyde’s throat pressed. The storm inside of his skull pressed at its confines. The water pouring out of his eyes and nose and mouth and ears fell heavily from him, bowed his back down above the Red Dragon until their faces were only inches from one another. He could see the very spark of life within snuff out. Justice was meted out with his hands, and with no mercy. He felt right. Every injustice, trouble, asymmetry in the world was righted as Dolarhyde struggled under the weight of his hands. The weight of the hands on his shoulders. The weight of the ocean in his skull. With one last breath, Frances sputtered out one question:_

_“See?”_

_The dam broke. His skull could only hold so much; the storm surpassed it, pressed its way through every fissure and line and crack in his cranium until it shattered his face and head completely, a whirlwind, a hurricane reaching toward the sky. Frances Dolarhyde’s throat and spine crunched between his hands._

Will shot up from his bed, shirt soaked with sweat. The room was-- unfamiliar. Where was he? This wasn’t-- he looked down to his side and saw Hannibal, the rope, and looked at the room. He was in Hannibal’s room. Okay. “Good morning,” he rasped, still catching his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a nightmare that vivid, that dark. 

Hannibal had been reading, apparently; he laid down his book and turned to him. “Good morning, Will.” 

Will rubbed at his eyes, grimacing. As long as his skull was intact, he’d be okay. So far, so good. “Nice of you to wake me up.” 

Shrugging, Hannibal answered, “You had seemed tired last night. I figured you needed all the rest you could get.” Will rolled his eyes. There was a whine by the bed; Saucisse was propped up on her hind legs, tail wagging frantically, trying to get up. Will nearly obliged, before realizing-- well, he was a touch too tied down to do so. “Hand,” he ordered, and Hannibal proffered his tied hand without even looking up from his book. It took Will a few tired tries to do it, but eventually he managed to untie his double knot. Soon after, Saucisse was in his arms and nosing against his neck. She was easily one of the most affectionate dogs he’d ever had; was it because she didn’t have a whole pack to keep her company? It wouldn’t be hard to care for one more dog, would it? Just so she could have a friend while he and Hannibal were out… Holding her close, he peered in Hannibal’s direction, wondering if there might be any way to convince him. The wary look his alleged husband shot Saucisse made Will reconsider. 

“Do you have class today?” Will asked, before pulling back with a snort as Saucisse licked his neck. 

Hannibal appeared less than amused. “I do, at four. Will you be joining me?” They both knew it was a rhetorical question at this point. Instead of answering, Will only ran his fingers down Saucisse’s back and let her make herself comfortable in his lap. Hannibal, watching the little brown creature make herself comfortable in his pristine sheets, took a moment to miss his sausage stuffer. 

They made it to La Sorbonne an hour early-- giving them plenty of time to explore a few nearby bookstores, followed by the Square Paul Painlevé. The Square was a delicate neighbor to La Sorbonne, featuring a small museum, some lovely trees, benches-- and an assortment of statues, each of them more compelling than the last. Reaching a bronze statue of a wolf breastfeeding two infants, they stopped. Hannibal turned to a nearby bench and peered at a woman who appeared to be sketching the piece, before saying a quiet, “Miss Reese. Are you a fan of Roman mythology?” 

The woman, who Will had recognized as Hannibal’s shy student, paused. For half a moment she looked like a deer in headlights; or maybe a child caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Doctor Ingram, um.” She gulped. “I just find the myth and imagery, uh. Interesting, I guess?” Will could feel her discomfort from a mile away; her knees knocked together and her eyes were directed straight at the leafy ground below her. 

Hannibal, realizing the same, gave her no mercy. “Is that so? I’d love to know what has you so interested. Do you draw often?” 

The woman, Miss Reese, set down her pencil and sketchbook. “I guess so? It’s, um. Kind of a hobby of mine. I just-- like the arts.” 

“So I’ve gathered based on our time together. How did you feel about the Peter Paul Rubens reading I had assigned? I imagine you’d be interested in his scholarly background.” The girl mumbled something in response, but Will couldn’t hear; he guessed Hannibal couldn’t hear either, when he said, “Sorry? Would you mind repeating that?” 

Miss Reese seemed to struggle with her words, face turning red. “It’s-- I-- I think he was a bit of an opportunist, but not, um. In a bad way. I th-thought that his work with Marie de Medici was an in-interesting way to, um, potentially ensure a, um, a peaceful relationship between Flanders and France. It--” her face grew redder, and she grasped at her jeans, “It’s also interesting that his work for de Medici d-didn’t put him in a position to be knighted there, whereas he was in Spain and England.” She took a trembling breath, evidently done. 

Hannibal was quick to reply, a smirk beginning at the sides of his mouth. “Always interested in political alliances, hm?” He paused. “Ah, my apologies, I’m being rude. Miss Reese, this is my husband, Henry Ingram. Henry, Charlotte Reese. She’s a student of mine in our Flemish painters seminar.” 

So Hannibal was going to be this particular brand of evil, then. Turning and offering an awkward smile to Miss Reese-- Charlotte, he said, “It’s nice to meet you. Always nice to meet another American.” He gave a half-hearted laugh that sounded uncomfortable to his own ears, and Charlotte offered an equally pained smile. 

“Yeah, um, nice to meet you too. It-- it’s good to put a face to a name.” As if to punctuate her sentence, Charlotte gave a half-hearted little wave. Will felt that Hannibal was the only comfortable person in the entire interaction. Taking a clandestine glance at the man, seeing his sadistic little smirk, he knew he was right. 

Still, he had a conversation to get to. “Oh, I didn’t know he talked about me. Haha.” This was painful. Clearly neither of them were good at socializing, and of course Hannibal would take advantage of that fact. 

This time, at least, Charlotte’s smile looked a little more genuine. “Yeah, um, it’s nice-- having someone else in the community. It’s kind of comforting, too, having Doctor Ingram talk about his husband.” She paused, looking down at her sketch, “It makes for a nice environment.” 

Oh. _Oh_. Was she… coming out to them? Will felt his own face flush-- felt guilt pulling at his stomach and throat. Sure, it made sense, in some ways; to the rest of the world, they were an out same-sex couple. Certainly Hannibal wasn’t quiet about it, at least. Maybe for some lonely kid in France it would make sense to share experiences. But… still. He wasn’t gay. He was just-- some guy who had to follow around a serial killer. This was so far beyond his comfort level, all he could do was nod, giving a strangled, “Good. I’m glad.” God, what was he doing? Everything between Hannibal and him was bullshit. He wanted to correct her, explain gently that no, he wasn’t in love with the man next to him, and no, he wasn’t anything to look up to, either. Instead, he just gave her a pained smile and looked to Hannibal, desperate to leave. 

He relented, thank goodness. They said their goodbyes, Hannibal taking Will’s hand in his; as soon as they were out of sight Will snatched his hand back. “What was that about?” 

Hannibal only pocketed his hand, continuing his stride. “What was what about?” 

Unbelievable. “Why would you talk about your personal life with students?” Why on earth would he mention Will? Why couldn’t he just disappear for a few hours without being known by an apparent class of students? Fuck-- why did some kid lesbian look at them like an _example_? The sham of their ‘marriage’ felt tilted, cruel. As if it weren’t enough to leave his wife and child back in Virginia, now he was leading some kid on to think that his life was something worth admiring. He felt sick to his stomach. 

“It’s an eight person course. It takes three hours of my day, twice per week. Of course some of my personal life is made known; Miss Reese could be a colleague of mine soon.” Hannibal looked completely unaffected, staring straight ahead. His voice was low as he asked, “Do you feel ashamed to be married to a man, even as a farce?”

“No, that’s not-- that’s not even the issue,” Will answered in a hushed voice, stopping their walk and turning to his companion, “But you’re misleading this kid into thinking that we’re something we’re not, and I don’t--” Will sighed. “It’s cruel, and, and-- unfair to her.” He looked into Hannibal’s face, into his eyes, hoping he’d find some sort of understanding-- at the very least, acknowledgement. All he found was a strange… look. There was a softness that occasionally crept into his eyes, and it never failed to put Will on edge. 

Hannibal was the first to look away. “You seem to care a great deal about what a stranger thinks of us.” 

Will could hear himself snort, face growing into a contemptuous grin. “We’re not anything to look up to.” 

He didn’t receive a response. 

  
  


____

  
  


**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  


The only thing Will hadn’t been prepared for was the boredom of laying around. Sure, he’d technically been prepared to drown after jumping off of the cliff, but after agreeing to a life of general peace and solitude with Hannibal he’d expected… Something else. Certainly not bleeding onto his new button-down, that was sure. He hadn’t anticipated being barred from wearing his new clothes either, nor being told to not move his arm or lift anything until Hannibal had cleared it. Rest and relaxation were the Doctor’s orders. 

Picking at the sleeve of his bathrobe, Will considered that the last time he had followed Hannibal’s medical advice, he’d ended up in a mental institute with encephalitis. Well. Hopefully things would be a little less chaotic this time around. He tipped his head back on the arm of Bedelia’s couch with a sigh. Nothing. There was nothing to do-- he’d already been through most of Bedelia’s bookshelf on psychoanalysis, and had made a decent dent into her collection of classics. Hannibal wouldn’t let him cook, so that wasn’t an option; television only stressed him at this point, so that would be a non-starter. A part of him wished he had his boat to work on. Anything to work on, just to feel less like a leech. 

Even if there were crooked floorboards or a leaky faucet, however, he knew Hannibal would be quick to shut it down. 

Speak of the devil-- Hannibal walked in, dressed in actual clothes, which only made the quiet humiliation of Will’s bathrobe sting more. In his hands was a small tray, carrying several plates of food, all of it stunning: what looked like some kind of tartare, a gnocchi, and soup, plated to perfection. “I thought you were still only having clear liquids?” Will asked, sitting up with a wince. 

“I am,” Hannibal answered, setting the tray down on the coffee table adjacent to the couch, “But you aren’t.” 

Will could _feel_ his eyebrows raising, creasing his forehead. “No.” There was no way Hannibal had cooked for him, and him alone. This was impossible. Dread cut through him as he looked at the display before him: sure, it wasn’t necessarily one of Hannibal’s dinner parties, but no one could expect that while in hiding. Still-- it was a multi-course meal, a whole one, and he couldn’t just eat it alone. 

“Yes,” Hannibal answered simply, taking advantage of the newfound space on the couch to sit beside Will. “Please, don’t mind me. Have some.” 

Will looked around the living room, astounded. “On the couch?” 

He felt Hannibal’s eyes on him. “No table-setting required. You don’t even have to pull out your own chair. Convenient, no?” 

This was when things clicked into place. “Wait,” Will said, blinking, “You’re not doing this because of my arm.” He turned to Hannibal, tense. That would be ridiculous. It wasn’t like Will needed caring for-- out of the both of them, Hannibal had gotten the worse end of the stick, getting shot in the gut. “Right?” 

“You’ve already lost strength in your injured arm-- the shoulder can barely support holding something as light as a dinner plate,” Hannibal said, all confidence, with no room for argument. “I’m not interested in you worsening it out of some misguided desire to be helpful. So, yes, we are eating on the couch because you refuse to accept help.” 

So he had carried a few dinner plates and pulled out his own chair. Sure, maybe he had pushed himself once or twice, but it was natural to work on his strength, at least try to help out. It wasn’t like he’d allow himself to be waited on hand and foot-- and as much as he appreciated his doctor’s medical help, he could pull a chair himself. This was just… unnecessary. “You didn’t have to do this.” 

“You also didn’t have to push yourself, yet here we are.”

Will didn’t have a response to that; even if he did, there was no way Hannibal would budge. So there they sat, on Bedelia Du Maurier’s lush couch. Will ate his dinner quietly, all the while feeling the weight of Hannibal’s eyes boring into him. As soon as he finished, he set his silverware down and gave a quiet, “This was good. Thank you.” 

Hannibal was satisfied. He arranged the silverware and plates on the tray, before picking it up and walking off before Will could get a word in. So he was going to be waited on hand and foot. A few minutes later his butler returned, sitting down next to him and placing a casual arm on the back of the couch, fingers grazing against Will’s shoulder. The room was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Past Bedelia’s television and bookcases, they could watch out the window as cars occasionally passed by; as the wind blew through the trees. It was quiet. When Will felt his eyes begin to drift shut, that was about it-- he stood up. “I need to get some rest. You ready for bed?” 

Hannibal followed suit, but not before glancing at Will’s shoulder. “Would you be against a quick cleaning of your wounds?” 

“Do I have a choice, Doctor?” Hannibal was too polite to order him about, but they both knew he could employ other tactics. 

The doctor must have been thinking roughly the same thing, because he looked amused when he said, “I’d prefer that you let me. It shouldn’t take long.” 

With a sigh and eyeroll, Will pulled at the collar of his bathrobe as soon as he got to the bedroom. He was delicate as he slid the fabric off of his shoulder, sitting on the bed. “How do you want me?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. “For-- cleaning.” 

“This is fine,” Hannibal answered, unperturbed. He pulled a bag of cotton balls from the bathroom, along with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. It was a little harsh for their needs, but it would do for now. With gentle hands, he poured the peroxide onto a cotton ball, dabbing it onto Will’s stab wound. That made two in that shoulder now, didn’t it? How thoroughly his boy had been scarred. If his hand lingered on Will’s arm for stability, neither of them mentioned it; they both remained quiet as Hannibal brought a fresh cotton and started on his cheek. The silence was only broken with a polite, “Would you please open your mouth for me?” 

Will did as he was told, and Hannibal had the satisfaction of finding that the wound was healing quite admirably. It was also a good opportunity to look around the interior of Will’s mouth, a portion of his body unseen by his own eyes. There was dead skin pinched around the sides of it-- he must have had a habit of biting his cheeks. How charming. 

“You’re healing quite well.” Hannibal pulled back, taking a short moment to admire the image of Will in front of him: the bathrobe fit him well, even more so when it had been loosened. One day he would have to give Will another. Perhaps silk? 

Will looked down at his hands for a moment, face conflicted. “What about you? How are you healing up?” 

Oh? This was a new development-- Will asking about Hannibal’s wounds. “They’re healing well enough. I should be fit for travel sooner than later.” He paused, studying his partner’s face. “Is that why you’re asking?” 

There was no answer for a few beats, but thankfully Hannibal was patient. He could withstand silence for as long as necessary. “Du Maurier. She’s been a gracious enough host.” Will’s eyes remained steady on his hands. 

“You feel conflicted about killing her.” 

There was a slight expression of amusement in Will’s face-- his lips drew upwards at the corners, his brows knit together. “We’ve been torturing her for awhile.” He went quiet, biting his lips together. “She never hurt anyone. She’s manipulative, and conniving, and takes advantage of her circumstances, but.” He sighed. “She’s still more innocent than either of us.” 

If nothing else, Bedelia had been an excellent sport; she either remained out of the way, or cold and distant enough to shut down most interaction. But Will couldn’t blame her for that-- she was held hostage in her own house for-- what, weeks? Most people would have had a full psychic break by then, or were at least close to one. How much had they made her suffer? Wasn’t it enough? He didn’t care for her, sure, but he didn’t want to see her killed. 

Hannibal remained cool, only smoothing down his shirt. “You think she doesn’t deserve it.” That was it, wasn’t it? Whatever criteria Will had for his victims, she didn’t possess them. Of course he would feel guilty; there was no satisfaction of moral superiority. Hannibal considered Will’s other victims-- Dolarhyde, Hobbs, Randall Tier. Clark Ingram, nearly. Chilton. His taste for blood began and ended with serial killers; even Chilton’s punishment had been in response to his medical malpractice. The punishment had to fit the crime, and Bedelia’s only crime had been complicity. That and killing a patient, but that murder was only a technicality. “There are many people who live full lives without an arm or leg.” Perhaps Doctor Du Maurier could be one of them. 

Will caught his meaning immediately. “Does that mean you’re willing to compromise?” His sardonic little smile reappeared, and Hannibal could see a little playfulness in his eyes. 

“If you’ll join me for dinner when the time comes.” 

Hannibal received no response aside from a smile-- Will stood up and walked to the nearest bathroom, preparing for bed. 

  
  


___

**La Sorbonne** , **Paris**

For all of the rounded arches and winding staircases La Sorbonne had to offer, Hannibal had always been slightly disappointed by the dusty little classroom that had been reserved for his Flemish Renaissance seminar. More accurately the title of his seminar was “The Political and Social Implications of Flemish Renaissance Art,” but there were only so many syllables he could cram into casual conversation. 

The classroom was small, cramped, and tucked away behind a major lecture hall. The desks were old, but not old enough to denote any antiquity, and the chalkboard he and his students used to illustrate points was never well enough stocked with chalk. It was a small class, and so the university could put it wherever it pleased. He had met the administrator behind this particular clerical decision, and took great care to keep his business card in his breast pocket, well away from his darling jailer. 

He had promised not to kill without Will’s permission, yes-- but he could still plan, just in case. And plan he did, as Charlotte Reese walked in with her heavy bag and sullen expression. How he’d missed the flavor of seared tongue. She ambled in behind her other classmates-- Lucille d’Antoine, Peter Gramm, Jeremie la Fontaine, Steven Schmidt, Chris Scheller, Daren Brahms, and Hwa Min-Jun.

It was fascinating, watching as seven of his eight students became quick friends. The group of seven were even willing to share the occasional high-brow joke with Hannibal-- short of their weak link, the class was quite enjoyable. There was of course some fawning over his research, the occasional attempts at winning him over, but that was just the game of higher education-- everyone was a potential reference in the art community. Equally interesting were the individual relationships: it was so very easy to watch as d’Antoine and Scheller sent one another amorous glances, while Min-Jun and Brahms kept as far from one another as possible. 

Similarly interesting was the treatment of their pet outcast-- every few weeks, Hwa and Lucille would be polite enough to invite Miss Reese to drinks, and every single time she gave them an uncomfortable smile and turned them down. 

Perhaps if Hannibal played his cards right, he could ostracize her further. It was no replacement for the taste of tongue, but he would at least have some kind of satisfaction. He remembered the feeling of Will’s hand pulling from his grasp, of his husband’s pained expression. It would be an opportunity for her to learn a lesson and keep her mouth shut in the future. 

...It was possible, he considered as he wrote a few relevant names onto his chalkboard, that he was being unfair. She was innocent enough-- it was almost polite, the way she mentioned that he and Will appeared happy. Why wouldn’t some young impressionable queer woman see them in that light? She had only believed the image Hannibal had projected to the world around them; it had been Will’s reaction that had caused the greatest blow to him. He paused in his writing-- it had been some time since he had felt conflicted like this, or even, loath as he was to admit it, hurt. The power Will Graham held over him was overwhelming and absolute-- and the rejection stung.

No matter. Now he was Professor Ingram, PhD. He had a seminar to teach. 

Midway through their three hour seminar, Hannibal allowed the class to leave for a break. He had high expectations, but he would hardly torture his students for their education. Everyone in the room went their own ways, with the majority of the class taking their time to organize their notes and leave. Miss Reese, as per usual, was the first out of the classroom and into the hallway. 

This left Hannibal alone in the room with naught but his students’ bookbags. He meandered about the room for a few moments, waiting for the class to fully leave the room. It had been some time since he’d gotten up to trouble, hadn’t it? He had spent a full two years with Will, playing at his game in the hopes that he would grow comfortable. Would trust him enough to slither back into the recesses of his mind. So far, he had been on his best behavior-- but what was looking into one book bag? Voyeurism and murder were two very different crimes, and Hannibal had made no promises to his husband about checking a bag or two. Miss Reese’s bag leaned against her desk at a precarious angle; it only took a slight kick of his foot for it to fall over entirely, spilling out a small pencil case full of highlighters and pens, the sketchbook he had seen earlier, a smaller notebook, a set of drawing pencils--

And a hunting knife, sheathed in leather. With a clandestine look about, he kneeled and picked it up, unsheathed it. It was sharp, serrated toward the handle, and had a vicious curve at the tip. Interesting. Still, it was possible that she only used it for self defense. 

That possibility shrank upon opening her small notebook. The first page was a sketch of a scene he had only seen in news articles-- a woman jumping off of a bridge, hands held above her head as if to simulate the action. Several arrows, in red ink, pointed to her wrists. The next page had a small blurb, mostly illegible due to her cramped and messy handwriting, but Hannibal could make out some. 

_...I told him I would rather jump off a bridge…_

... _Plain and simple rejection…_

It was the last line that held his attention: “ _It was worth the frostbite.”_

The next page was even better-- a sketch of a man impaled, almost a perfect replica of the murder. Written and underlined beside the sketch in heavy ink were the words, “ _Vlad the Impaler_.” 

The third murder was put to paper as well, in equally black ink-- but his time was nearly out, and he would hardly risk being found snooping through a student’s bag. Carefully, he placed the notebook and knife back into the bag, leaving the rest. He had kicked it by accident, after all. 

Shortly afterward, the class returned-- Charlotte was first, and quick to clean up the contents of her bag. “Oh-- sorry, um. This must’ve fallen over.” She looked tense as she placed her hand inside the bag, feeling the contents. 

“No, please, I kicked it-- I wasn’t watching where I was going. I should apologize to you.” Hannibal kept his smile in check; no need to show too much pleasure. Best keep to appropriate topics, at least for now. “I noticed that you’re working to add to our discussions. You’ve made some very interesting points; particularly about your opinion regarding the Rubenesque.” 

The unexpected compliment seemed to catch her off guard. “Oh! Yeah. I tried-- you know.” She looked down, running a hand through her hair. “You said to fix it, so I’m, uh, trying.” Charlotte let out an uncomfortable little laugh, before pulling her pencil case from her bag and grabbing a highlighter. “Thank you.” She paused again, before saying quietly, “I appreciate it.” 

Hannibal Lecter had met various patients with similar deference and shyness-- most of them tended to be victims of abuse, wherein compliments were given rarely and insults were commonplace. 

He would have to test this theory. But for now, he had a class to teach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! This chapter definitely fought me for its entirety, and honestly I still feel a little torn about this. But! I've thrown in some actual murder mystery-plot, and I'm super excited to go into more depth with the characters I've introduced. :) I'd love to know your thoughts on this progression! 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading!


	7. A Moment of Levity

**Paris, France**

The sun was beginning to set when their class ended, and Hannibal felt the familiar gratification of seeing his partner at the back exit. Today he was nursing a warm drink in his hands, the weather beginning to edge just on the side of brisk. He had been wondering what purchase his beloved had bought since he felt his phone buzz in his pocket-- that solved that mystery, then. “Good evening,” Hannibal said, stopping near Will and giving him a quick appraisal-- he looked less tense than he did earlier. There was something adjacent to a smile on his face. 

“How was class, Doctor Ingram?” Will asked, not fully turning his head, only peering at him out of the corner of his eye. It was the same song and dance they had done several times per week for nearly a year now, but even the familiarity of the interaction didn’t bore Hannibal. 

“Not bad at all-- the shy bird from earlier is beginning to stretch her wings,” he answered with a private smile. Perhaps she was stretching them further than Will imagined; only time would tell. Actually, she had managed to hold her own in a lighthearted disagreement with la Fontaine, citing painting techniques and materials that hadn’t yet been mentioned in class. It had been a legitimately interesting game of conversational tennis, and it left Hannibal curious to continue it. 

Will caught on immediately, staring down at his drink and raising his eyebrows in a smug expression. “Maybe a little patience with her isn’t bad.” 

“Perhaps it helps to consult with another long-time teacher,” Hannibal answered in kind, watching as his partner’s lips touched at the cheap paper cup in his hand. He would have to prepare a thermos of warm tea, at some point. Will only snorted a quiet laugh, and joined Hannibal as they began their walk to the train station. “How was your time away?” 

“Not bad at all,” Will admitted-- he had found a little cafe near the Seine and sat outside with his tea, watching people pass by. No one bothered him, the weather was nice enough-- compared to his time back at the BSU, it was a delight. “Drank some coffee, some tea-- did some people watching.” He paused, looking at his ‘spouse’ and chuckled, “I feel like I’m turning into some spoiled house husband.” As soon as it came out of his mouth, he realized it was a lot closer to reality than he’d thought. 

Hannibal must have read his mind, because he answered with a similarly amused smile, “Is that such a bad thing?” He received no answer aside from a snort, and for several minutes they enjoyed their walk in companionable silence, feet crunching newly fallen leaves. Will seemed to be in good spirits. “Miss Reese had actually made some quite interesting points today in class,” he began, careful with his wording, “Would it be possible for her to join us for dinner some time to discuss her thoughts in further detail?” 

Immediately, the tension that had bled out of Will throughout the day made its comeback. “Like a dinner party?” 

“Nothing as formal as that. She just seems to know quite a lot about renaissance and baroque painting techniques; I may be interested to learn from her.” This was true on multiple levels-- there was a great deal that he did not know about how paintings were originally made, as much as he was aware of their cultural and historical importance. He also wanted to take a longer look at her journal. 

Will didn’t answer for a moment. “And we can’t just meet her for lunch somewhere?” 

That would make it significantly harder for Hannibal to get access to her bag unattended. “That’s possible, of course-- but I wouldn’t be against cooking for an additional guest.” Besides, he owned original sketches of some of the paintings they had discussed in class-- it would be nice to have a few of his finer art pieces properly appreciated. “You know as well as I do that art is meant to be appreciated by many, not just a lucky few.” 

This earned him a mildly derisive laugh. “You want to peacock a little bit, then.” This wasn’t that much of a surprise-- Will had attended one or two of Hannibal’s dinner parties; he knew adoration and attention were Hannibal’s lifeblood. The amused tilt to Hannibal’s mouth was a clear concession-- they both knew he was right. “We’re not going to do this often, and we’re not gonna have any large parties.” That was where he drew the line. “But a small one is fine, as long as you get her out before I take Saucisse on her walk.” 

Hannibal could live with that. “Perfect. I’ll invite her for this weekend? Saturday?” That would give him plenty of time to prepare an appropriate dinner. And, of course, he would need the right ingredients-- 

Catching on, Will groaned. “The farmer’s market? Again?” If there was one place Hannibal Lecter could spend his whole damned day, it was a farmer’s market-- and he had taken a particular liking to a busy one in town. The last time they’d visited, they spent three straight hours perusing fresh vegetables, meats, and cheeses, and Hannibal had insisted on carrying most of them home. Still, Will felt tired just thinking about it. 

“I promise you I won’t take too long,” Hannibal replied, eyes soft. How his darling had made such sweet sacrifices for him. Was there a way to sweeten the deal? “I believe dogs are welcome there, as it’s outside. Perhaps it can be an outing for Saucisse as well?” 

This seemed to help Will’s mood considerably. He pursed his lips, eyes sliding Hannibal’s way with a coy expression that he was beginning to recognize-- Will wanted something. “If you’re going to be in the kitchen, I might take a nap on the couch.” Ah, perhaps he was gaining trust. But Hannibal suspected that he could improve this situation with some mild pushing. 

“I imagine that preparation won’t take too long-- the most time consuming aspect would be baking.” He could make a crown roast for a centrepiece, add in a few sides… If he prepared correctly, he could find a way to ensure Will kept to the spirit of his probation while resting. But that was tenuous-- he’d take the chance as it came to him. “You can get an hour or two in before our guest arrives.” 

Will snickered. “Are we really planning our weekends to the minute, now?” What a contrast to their old life-- he still remembered Hannibal crawling out of the FBI’s van and pulling a corpse out of a cop car. ‘ _Going my way?_ ’ God. It was almost too funny, thinking about it. Going to the farmer’s market to pick out exorbitantly expensive cheeses with the same man he’d pointed a gun at. Idly, he remembered the moment the tides had turned against the Red Dragon, Dolarhyde-- the look they’d shared. The several seconds they had spent clinging to one another, slick with blood. To think things would change to this extent; to think he’d remember that moment with something adjacent to fondness. Something dropped in his stomach at the realization that, yes, that was what he felt about that night, all those months ago-- _tender_. How horrifying. Will gulped, turning away from Hannibal to stare out at the city before them. 

“Maybe just this weekend,” Hannibal amended, watching as the faintest blush crept up Will’s neck. Of course he had turned away-- what thoughts was he hiding in that mind of his? 

The two returned home and began their burgeoning routine: they took Saucisse out to the nearby park to do her business, before returning to the apartment. Will made her dinner, while Hannibal prepared their own. Inwardly, Hannibal rather enjoyed the similarity Saucisse’s relationship to Will had in regards to their own: Hannibal fed him, cared for him as his own little pet. This train of thought was his daily indulgence, and he imagined for the umpteenth time Will baring his throat and submitting to his touch. He liked to think that his beloved husband’s voice would be hushed, even as his breaths heaved and dropped the delicate arches of his ribcage in a fast rhythm. His eyes would be glazed, unfocused, his cheeks rough with stubble-- his lips wet with spit. All of that milky pale skin, flushed with passion. 

As he chopped his chives, Hannibal imagined his darling tense with barely-contained want, legs spread open upon their bed, one shy hand covering his-- ah, the oven was done preheating. 

The pair enjoyed their dinner in relative silence, only broken by the occasional compliment from Will and the clinking of silverware on plates. Lit only in golden candlelight, sipping fine wine, Hannibal was tempted to pull out his oil paints and depict his husband in the style of Rembrandt. Golden, lush, gorgeous beyond belief. Instead, he enjoyed his dinner and watched every bite of chicken that passed Will’s lips. 

____

**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  


A bead of sweat rolled down Will’s throat, over exertion-red skin, and Hannibal was tempted to drop every pretense of professionalism then and there. He knew the smell of Will’s sweat well enough; now he wanted to know it in the gustatory sense. Instead, he only lifted his hand to the weight in Will’s own and pushed down on it, forcing his patient to push harder upwards, to accept the ache in his shoulders and arms for what it was: improvement. “You’re an asshole,” Will mentioned through gritted teeth, breaths slow per Hannibal’s instructions. 

“And you’re doing wonderfully,” Hannibal parried, and they both knew he meant it. “Five,” he began, and in the hand at Will’s ribcage he felt anticipatory tension-- “Four,” Will took a deep breath, and pushed harder against the hand that weighed his arm down. “Three,” Hannibal nodded approvingly, before stretching his next pause just a little longer. There was something so exquisite about his darling boy’s suffering. “Two,” and now he held the pause until Will’s eyes opened in a furious glare. He only arched an eyebrow in response. “One.” 

All of the anger and tension in Will’s body melted at once. Hannibal wouldn’t let him drop the weight immediately, no, but just the slow act of setting it down on the dresser felt like heaven in and of itself. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, Will turned away from the dresser and dropped his body onto the bed. Yes, it was only his arm that needed physical therapy, but with Doctor Hannibal Lecter at his side controlling the session, his whole body felt tired. “Are you thinking of being a physical therapist in France?” Will asked with a laugh-- he’d be the first to rate Hannibal’s practice poorly. 

Sitting down next to his patient, Hannibal replied, “I’m not sure if I intend to stay in the medical field, actually.” 

This caught Will’s attention. “Yeah? Planning on living off that inheritance?” 

Instead of answering, Hannibal said, “Why don’t you sit up? That way we can finish your session.” Perhaps it wasn’t _strictly_ necessary to provide a deep tissue massage after every workout, but he was a man who preferred to overachieve in every endeavor. Thankfully it was with only minimal grumbling that Will sat up for him and turned toward the wall. This was when the temptation to reinjure his patient reached its zenith: it would only take a misplaced squeeze, or too heavy a weight to ensure that Will relied on his therapy indefinitely; The simple pleasure of touching at Will’s shoulder, riddled now with scars and memories of pain, was immeasurable. There was no greater loss to Hannibal now than Will’s recovery, but such was the cost of building trust. 

He let his fingertips skim Chiyoh’s bullet wound for an agonizing half-second as he settled into his grip. His fingers gripped into the skin of Will’s shoulder, pliable and soft, and Hannibal couldn’t help remembering his decades-old visit to Galleria Borghese, admiring the way Bernini had depicted Pluto grasping onto Proserpina-- the marble indentation of his fingers into her thigh. The intrusion of Will’s personal space by touch; the power exerted upon his very skin. The soft sigh Will gave in reaction, followed by the poorly-hid wince. He could have lived in this quiet moment forever. With practiced touches, he pressed into the muscle of Will’s shoulder and massaged it until it was pliant, soft, primed for healing. 

Under his care, Will would recover beautifully. “Does it hurt?” 

Will’s curls bobbed as he shook his head. “S’fine,” he mumbled, even as he rolled his shoulder under Lecter’s hand. On some level, yes, it did hurt-- it ached with a depth he’d grown used to, after being stabbed, and shot, and stabbed again in that same goddamned shoulder. But the massage itself wasn’t… bad. He’d received similar ones from his wife, before all of this, but she was gentler by far. It probably reflected badly on Will that he almost preferred Hannibal’s roughness. It was merciless, somehow, and the pain was grounding-- it brought him back to himself, pulled him from his own mind before he could get lost in it. Physically, Hannibal pushed him and pulled him with every touch, and the light rocking rhythm was outright pleasant. 

There was no way he would tell that to Hannibal, though. He remained quiet, ignoring the occasional pulses of genuine pleasure that the doctor managed to tease out of him-- it was normal, after all, to enjoy human touch. That was why massage parlors existed in the first place. If his eyes closed for a minute or two, neither of them mentioned it. Hannibal took his sweet time to let go of him, but when he finally did, Will hopped to his feet and turned back to his doctor. “I’ll shower first?” It was quickly becoming routine that Will would be the first into the shower, but there was always the possibility. 

But Hannibal only remained where he was, gesturing to the nearby bathroom with one languid arm. “Please-- I’ll read here.” 

And so they were decided. Will showered first-- he kept the water hot on his skin, let the heat of the water bleed into his aching shoulder. 

Later, after Will had tied them together and Hannibal turned off the lights, they laid awake. It was Hannibal who broke the silence first. “Our passports should be coming in soon.” 

Oh? “I thought we were still hammering out our aliases.” 

In the darkness of the room, Hannibal’s lips twitched into a smile. “Is that what you call avoiding a subject? ‘Hammering it out’?” 

Will didn’t answer for a beat. “I wasn’t avoiding the subject.” It sounded like a lie to his own ears. But still-- it wasn’t like Hannibal had mentioned it, either. 

“There’s only so much time we can spend in Doctor Du Maurier’s home, Will. I would hate for us to outstay our welcome.” This wasn’t necessarily true; they hadn’t been ‘welcome’ in the first place. But they both were at least cognizant of the fact that the longer they remained here, the greater the chances were of them being caught. 

There was another pause, as Will took a deep breath. Released it, slowly. “We’re really doing this.” 

“Yes.” 

Hannibal could feel the sheets pull as Will shifted. “We’re going with the ‘husbands’ story?” 

“We are.” There was no need to mince words; not now. 

Still, in the dark Hannibal could make out a twitch in Will’s brows, a telling scrunch in his profile. “Molly? Walter?” 

Hannibal didn’t even have to consider it-- he had already put aside the funds. “Provided for.” 

Just barely, he could see Will bite his lips together. “Our names?” 

“The Ingrams. I’ll be Doctor Lucius Ingram, and you’re welcome to choose your first name.” Will was already listed as ‘Henry’ in his passport, but it wasn’t like they couldn’t change that in the future. The name had begun as a placeholder when he had first commissioned his forger, but Hannibal had to admit that the classic English name had grown on him. It had a similar etymology to William, anyway. “You’re currently listed as Henry on your passport.” 

It occurred to Will for the very first time that he didn’t… particularly care about what his alias would be. So much of this agreement with Hannibal had been a compromise, so what was a name? What was any of it? A feeling of unreality settled over Will-- this wasn’t his life anymore. All that he had struggled for, fought for, everything he had cherished was gone. What was one more grain of sand on a mountain top? For half a moment even his body felt foreign to him, as if it weren’t his own; his body was a machine of flesh, an automaton, and he was just inhabiting it. His life was no longer his own. It was tied to Hannibal’s implicitly; they were conjoined. For one long moment, he felt hollow. As far as Molly or Walter or Jack were concerned, he was gone. He didn’t exist anymore; not to anyone who had ever known him. Will Graham was dead. He drowned after hitting the water. The skin and bone and muscle that built his body was all that he had left. Even his name was taken from him. “Henry it is, then.” His voice was rough; at least Hannibal was polite enough not to point out the wetness in his eyes. Henry Ingram.

A new man, a new life, a new person. This was what Hannibal had meant about rebirth, wasn’t it? Like a snake peeling off its old skin. 

It hurt. 

  
  
____  
  
  


**Paris, France**

The farmer’s market was a marathon, made no easier with the addition of Saucisse. Hannibal insisted on finding the very best of the best produce, meat, and cheeses for their one dinner guest, and had apparently made an order with one of the market’s butchers to get a crown roast, whatever that was-- all Will knew was that it had spikes poking the confines its bag at strange angles. At roughly the same time, Saucisse tried to knock over a free sample stand of prosciutto, and successfully managed to con one of the stand workers to give her a small cut. Unbelievable. What had happened to the poor pup who huddled at his ankles? 

After some meandering and an unnecessary amount of cheese assessment, they finally left the market; Hannibal held the spoils of their outing, and Will held a very tired little dog. It was all so _much_ . So many people, so many conversations, so many things around-- there was only so much stimulation he could take, and the constant buzzing of salespeople and customers and passersby had him nearly over the edge. As soon as they got back to the apartment, Will set Saucisse down and dropped himself onto their couch, closing his eyes and taking a deep, cleansing breath. That was over. Only one more ordeal for the day. In the meantime, Hannibal had the kitchen, leaving Will to stare at the ceiling in an exhausted daze in peace. After some minutes of this, Saucisse hopped up onto the couch to join him. God. It was barely _noon_. 

“Can I get you something to eat?” Hannibal appeared at Will’s side, just behind the couch. “Perhaps some coffee?” 

He felt his lips twitch-- every so often Hannibal would act like this, like Will’s own personal butler. When their agreement had first started, he remembered hating it, feeling like it was some kind of intrusion on his autonomy. Now, he only looked up with bleary eyes and asked, “Maybe some water?” How things had changed. 

“Water it is.” Hannibal placed his hands on the back of the couch, leaning forward just enough to look at him. He paused there for a moment, as if surveying him, before he turned back to the kitchen and pulled a glass and pitcher. 

In retrospect, there were various little things they’d both had to adjust to-- Hannibal’s insistence on cooking and tidying up was only one of them. Will remembered the expression of quiet horror on Hannibal’s face when he’d found a discarded umbrella on one of the curbsides in Rouen, perfectly useable with some glue and stitching. The time they’d walked into an art gallery per Hannibal’s request, and left with an actual _17th century painting_. At some point in the two years they’d lived together, they had grown used to each other. 

Will sat up as his ‘husband’ returned, water in hand. Saucisse gave a quick huff of annoyance, but after some kicking she managed to make herself comfortable. “Thanks,” Will said quietly, rubbing his eyes before accepting the glass. He wasn’t sure how many more farmer’s markets he could take. 

Sipping at his water, he watched Hannibal walk back to the kitchen, and as soon as he heard the familiar sounds of drawers opening and cooking utensils clinking together, he set his water down onto a side table and reclined. This was another thing that had become familiar to him-- the sounds of a kitchen. Back at Bedelia’s house-- hell, back in Rouen, even, he remembered being surprised by the snapping sounds of a gas stove clicking on, the crunch of a vegetable being cut into. Most of the sounds had a white-noise, susurrus quality about them, but it had taken time for him to tune them out entirely. For their familiarity to become commonplace enough for him to forget the sound altogether. He stroked Saucisse’s back. When had this lifestyle become home to him? 

He took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. It was funny, how grief worked. On days like these it was only ankle-deep. He could wade through it with no effort, find comfort in his immediate surroundings. In the sounds Hannibal made as he puttered around the kitchen. Other days it overwhelmed him, flooded his mind until he drowned in it entirely. He hoped Molly and Walter were happy-- happier than they could ever be if he had stayed. His presence would have only weighed them down, pulled them into the murky waters he’d learned to call home. He couldn’t break them the way he’d been broken. 

Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for a normal life. Maybe this was the best a man like him could hope for. He heard Hannibal whisking at something and sat back up, turning toward the kitchen and watching him work. There was an elegance to his every movement, a grace only brought about through careful consideration. He was always deliberate, in every single endeavor. The way he stood perfectly straight even as he worked; the way his hand cupped the mixing bowl, gentle and focused and absolute in its confidence. There was a beauty there, if Will swept away the pretension and context. Hannibal’s profile had a classical element to it; he could imagine it in a painting, or a marble bust. He had such sharp cheekbones, such prominently full lips. 

The eyes of the man in question slid Will’s way. “Is this dinner and a show?” 

Caught off guard, Will blinked. “No, just. Watching how the sausage gets made.” He saw those prominent lips pull into a smile. 

Hannibal never did get that chance to allow Will his nap; he suspected that the nap happened regardless, going by the silence from the couch, but he wouldn’t interrupt his work to make sure. Instead he prepared his dinner courses to meticulous perfection, ensuring that each plate had his signature artful touch. 

Time did fly when having fun-- Hannibal was just finishing the table setting; Will appeared to be most of the way through his current book when they heard a knock at their door. 

The time had come-- Hannibal had wondered how tonight’s dinner party was going to go, based on the lukewarm reception Miss Reese had given to his invitation. Well, it was time to find out. 

Will was polite enough to set his book down and stand as Hannibal opened the door. There she was-- mousy, gangly, reeking of cigarette smoke. Easily his least favorite of the world’s many vices, Hannibal held back his disgust and welcomed her in, finally noting the box of tupperware in her hands. “Miss Reese, so glad you could join us. May I ask what you brought?” 

Already the girl was uncomfortable, staring down at her little box of tupperware. “Just some cupcakes. It’s-- well, it’s October, and one of my favorite holidays is Halloween, so.” She glanced at Will, the only other American in the room, and noted the complete lack of festive decor. “It’s, um. Spooky?” Miss Reese managed an uncomfortable smile, and Hannibal let an awkward silence hang around the room. It had been so long since he could truly intimidate someone, bring about a prey-like instinct. This pleasure ended the moment they heard little claws scrabbling across the wood floor. Charlotte turned Saucisse’s way, and her expression went from one of pained awkwardness to pleasant surprise. “Who’s this?” She asked, voice disgustingly saccharine. She immediately dropped to her knees, sporting the widest smile he’d ever seen on her face. 

Saucisse was curious about their new guest; she came over slowly, and backed away toward Will as soon as Miss Reese settled onto the floor. “This is Saucisse-- we didn’t name her, she just came from the shelter that way,” Will explained, following Charlotte’s lead and dropping to the floor as well, scruffing at the dog’s fur. “She’s still a little shy, but she’ll be your best friend if you give her a little food.” 

“Hey, I can’t say no to free treats either,” Charlotte answered, her smile crooked, reaching her hand part-way to the dog, palm up. “Hi Sweetheart,” she cooed, voice soft. 

As unwelcome as his guest’s dessert was, Hannibal would not let it rest on the floor; Charlotte was already perilously close to setting it down on the ground already. “Let me get that for you.” He took the tupperware from his student, accepting her quiet thank-you with a nod. She was quick to resume courting the attention of Will’s dog. On the floor, surely getting fur on their clothes, talking at an animal that resembled a rat; what an auspicious beginning to the evening. That Hannibal didn’t empty his guest’s ‘gift’ into the trash bin was a difficult exercise in patience. 

“So you guys got her from a shelter?” Charlotte asked, gingerly taking her hand back when she realized that the dog wouldn’t be coming close; as pleasant as she was, wagging her tail, she still preferred the safety of Will’s arms. “She seems to be doing really well.” 

“Ah, yeah-- we actually got her just before moving here, so, not too long.” Will paused, giving Saucisse a quick pet, “I know the timing isn’t ideal, but the shelter had mentioned-- well.” The look he gave the pup was loving, if a little sad. 

Charlotte seemed to understand the gist of it. “Gotcha.” She paused, looking up and about the apartment-- on doing so, she seemed to right herself, sit a little straighter. Will knew that feeling well enough; it was an intimidating space, what with the artwork and picture windows overlooking the park. “This is a beautiful place. Really nicely, uh... designed.” 

Oh, hell. Small talk. At least she didn’t seem too insistent on eye contact. “Yeah, that’s mostly Lucius-- I don’t really need much myself, but he’s got expensive tastes.” In response, Reese only bit back a smile. Was the rush of breath that came out of her nose a laugh? Will wasn’t sure. 

That line of thought was derailed when Hannibal returned with several wine glasses in hand. “Miss Reese-- what are your thoughts on starting with a nice Riesling?” A Riesling wine was one of Hannibal’s favorite starters: it was light, easy on the palate, and paired well with their gnocchi. 

There was a quick expression of surprise on Charlotte’s face, before she cracked another crooked smile and answered, “Just-- call me Miss Reese-ling, I guess.” She stood up and walked toward the dining table, admiring Hannibal’s setting. “I hope you didn’t do all this for me?” 

“Please, you’re a guest. This is only natural,” Hannibal replied, pouring wine into her glass. He handed it to her with a polite smile, an old habit from another life. “Miss Reese-ling.”

She accepted the wine just as Will stood up and joined them. “He’s also a bit of a peacock and likes to show off.” He accepted a filled glass of wine from his ‘husband’ and took a sip. It tasted like wine; that was about all his palate could discern. 

Hannibal gave his husband what appeared to be a long-suffering look, before turning back to their guest. “Now, before dinner, I know you mentioned your interest in Watteau several classes ago-- I actually have a sketch of his. Would you like to see it?” 

The woman’s brows approached her hairline. “Yeah-- it actually looks like you have a lot of interesting pieces here. I’d love to hear more about them.” This was when Will started to tune them out, instead watching as Hannibal gestured to various paintings, and Charlotte leaned forward to take a careful look at some detail or other. He drank his wine and watched the two discuss, apparently, linseed oil and pigment production. This was gonna be a long night. 

Will was on midway through his second glass when the two returned, Hannibal appearing particularly smug. “Now of course, ideally it would be stored in an archival box.” Charlotte nodded, her wine barely touched. “But the works of masters, even their sketches, should be viewed.”

“Like seeing through their perspective,” Charlotte agreed, “There’s an extemporaneity to sketches; they feel less boxed in by the need to be perfect for clients.” 

“Exactly,” Hannibal nodded, before gesturing to a small out-of-the-way sketch that sat on a side table near the dining area. “Easily one of my favorite aspects of Watteau’s sketching is how he renders fabric-- there’s a mastery there, but there’s a casual touch, as well.” He picked it up, handing it to Charlotte. 

She froze. For less than half a second, she seemed almost-- shocked. With a fast blink or two, though, she was back, making casual conversation about the voluptuousness of Watteau’s female subjects, before droning on about their faces; how he drew noses, or something. Will drank at his wine, studying the woman’s face. Whatever that moment was, it was gone now. 

They continued to dinner seamlessly. Hannibal gestured them to the table, always the masterful host, and briefly retreated to the kitchen. “So,” Charlotte began quietly, “I didn’t know Doctor Ingram cooked.” 

Alone with her, or at least not entirely within Hannibal’s earshot, he considered the woman who had walked alone into this lion’s den: she was thin, almostly worryingly so. She held herself lightly, almost making herself smaller to better avoid touching anything; that intimidation hadn’t worn off just yet. “Yeah, he won’t really let me into the kitchen,” Will answered with what he hoped was a welcoming smirk. “I wasn’t lying about the peacocking, he’s been itching to show off to someone other than me.” 

Speak of the devil: Hannibal returned, two massive plates balanced in his hands. So _that_ was what Hannibal had got at the market; it looked like a crown of meat, with bones poking up through the top. Considering the man who cooked it, it seemed almost macabre. “Oh, wow.” Charlotte was rightfully impressed. “Can I-- help with anything? That looks like a lot.” She was just about ready to stand up, when Hannibal put up a gentle hand to stop her. 

“No need-- I’ve managed much more difficult feats in my time,” the host replied, setting down their main course with a small flourish. Once that was sat down, he placed a soft hand on Will’s shoulder. “As a bachelor, I’d often host dinner parties. It was something of a hobby of mine-- but unfortunately Mister Ingram isn’t a great fan of company.” For a moment, he looked down at Will, as if putting forward a challenge. Will glared back as obviously as polite company allowed him to. 

Charlotte just nodded. “That’s understandable.” 

As Hannibal left to procure the other courses, a small silence settled over the table. It was Will’s turn to start conversation, wasn’t it? Shit, he was bad at this. “So. Art?” Suddenly he regretted never paying attention to Hannibal’s art history ramblings. 

Thankfully, Charlotte nodded, apparently equally conversationally inclined. “Yeah. Uh. I really like, um. Art, and conservation and stuff.” 

“Conservation?” 

“Um.” Reese paused, looking surprised. “It’s like keeping art pieces structurally sound, and stuff. I kind of like to think of it as a car wash for art pieces, except with, like-- woodwork, sometimes, and a bit of chemistry, too.” 

Too far out of his depth to formulate a decent question, Will replied, “Huh.” He’d never really considered that art would need anything like that, usually being kept in museums-- it made sense, though. Anything old enough would break down. 

They both knew this river of conversation was running dry. “So.” Charlotte started, glancing at Hannibal; Will turned back himself to find that he was splashing some kind of sauce on a plate. “Doctor Ingram says you-- you fish?” Will nodded, and for a moment he thought that would be all. Instead, Reese redoubled on the fish talk: “Do you catch…” Her eyes wandered around the table, searching for words, “Big fish?” 

At least he wasn’t alone in being out of his depth; he grabbed the wine bottle and poured himself a generous third helping. “Uh, yeah, sometimes. I prefer fly fishing, so it takes some work to fully figure out what you’re getting, but um. Usually they’re a good size.” 

It was Charlotte’s turn to nod politely. Will was half sure they could just let this conversation die in silence, when she continued. “So, fly fishing? I’m kind of imagining an airplane being involved, but that doesn’t sound right.” 

Will barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Having a guest over who seemed so brilliant in something so esoteric, he didn’t think he’d be explaining something this mundane. Thankfully, she laughed along with an embarrassed little shrug. Hannibal had just started walking back to the table with a plate of seared scallops when Will explained, “No, uh, fly fishing doesn’t involve airplanes.” 

The two erupted into a shared giggle. Hannibal, who hadn’t seen his husband laugh with anyone other than him in, goodness, _years_ , placed the plate onto the table with an amused glance Will’s way. Charlotte replied, hand partially covering her mouth, “I grew up in a city, I’m not--” her face went red. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Will laughed her concerns off with a quick wave of his hand. “Uh--” catching himself from another fit of laughter, he explained, “It’s with a longer line, kind of lighter, with a light lure-- it’s a bit more difficult than normal fishing, in a way.” He didn’t expect fly fishing to be this hard to explain without any kind of example. “You have to kind of move the line along with the wind, a bit. It’s not entirely unlike, uh.” What was that sport, with the ribbons? “You know that ribbon some gymnasts use? It’s a bit like that, but longer, and with a lure at the end.” He probably made no sense at this point, but their guest was polite enough to nod along. 

“That kinda sounds pretty, actually.” 

Hannibal sat down at the head of the table, watching Will’s face as he struggled to form a response. Finally, he settled on, “I wouldn’t think of it as pretty, necessarily, but, uh. It’s very relaxing. Except-- when you fall in your waders.” The blank expression on Charlotte’s face made him amend, “They’re, um, plastic boots you use to wade through rivers.” 

This must have made an impression, because the young woman’s puzzlement grew ever deeper. “Wait, you’re _in_ the water? Not on a boat?” 

Settling into his seat, Hannibal gave himself a few moments to enjoy the conversation between his two unlikely dinner guests. “Yeah, usually you’re in a river for it, so a boat would just go downstream before you can catch anything,” Will explained, “With all that movement, it’d be a good way to lose a lure.” 

Charlotte nodded thoughtfully, before giving Will a quizzical look. “Which is what catches the fish.” Her expression denoted an openness to being corrected. 

Will Graham hadn’t anticipated giving a PhD candidate a whole lecture on fishing, but he was two and a half glasses of wine into this conversation and enjoying it quite a bit. “Aha, yes, it lures the fish to the hook, which catches the fish. You can actually make your own-- once you get a little experience with it, you can get a gauge on what works, what doesn’t.” 

This only drew their guest in further. “You make your own? Out of what?” 

Will blinked. “Out of anything, really, as long as you can wind it together with some string. Back in Virginia I’d use my dogs’ fur, or maybe some fish scales, or…” Will looked far away for a moment, continuing, “I’m half sure I found some bear fur once, sticking to some sap from a tree, but I had no real way of knowing. So.” He turned back to Charlotte, smile soft with old memories, “Almost anything.” 

“So it’s your own functional art piece. That’s pretty fuckin’ cool.” She looked down, blushing. “Sorry, uh, I know you’re not a fan of foul language, Doctor Ingram. This looks delicious, by the way.” 

Hannibal accepted the apology with a nod, if only because she had brought out such an interesting side of his husband tonight. “Please, it’s for enjoying. _Bon Appetit._ ” Cutting into the crown roast, he served his guests their portions. 

Will dug in, cutting into the meat and taking a quick bite. His old lures, seen as art pieces. He glanced at the young woman, watched her take excruciatingly careful bites of her meal. She had an interesting way of seeing things. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! This is probably the first and last chapter that will be so OC-heavy, because this is about Will and Hannibal, but one thing I really wanted to do with this fic is present characters similarly to how Fuller does. He makes assholes so darned likable, I couldn't help but want to try my hand at something similar myself! 
> 
> Anywho, the more adult elements are beginning to ramp up, so please note that going forward! I've already put tidbits in, but I suspect that future chapters will lean into the "Explicit" rating of this fic more thoroughly. 
> 
> As always, thank you so so so much for reading! On a personal note, it's been great for my mental health to work on something that's fulfilling and fun at the same time, so I hope you're all enjoying this as much as I have. :)
> 
> P.S. Proofreading is for the weak, so I'll probs edit this later x


	8. Muddled Motivations

**Paris, France**

  
  


The evening ended peacefully, with several beautifully decorated, albeit very dry cupcakes. Hannibal had promised to finish them off with his husband later, and, upon their guest’s departure, finished them by giving them a well-deserved toss into the kitchen waste bin. If Will gave him a look, Hannibal ignored it. Besides, Will was on his fifth glass of wine-- he’d already had plenty before eating, meaning that the man was drunk, exhausted, and full. As far as Hannibal was concerned, this was turning out to be an ideal evening. “Can I do anything?” Will slurred, stepping into the kitchen on legs that were leaning toward unsteady. 

There was no point in hiding his smile as he answered. “No, I’m afraid I have to ask you to sit down. You look quite tired.” 

Will sighed, tipping his head down and pinching at the bridge of his nose. “You’re not wrong.” 

“You’ve had a very long day.” It was true-- he’d also had a great deal of wine. Hannibal poured a quick glass of water, before guiding his husband back to the couch and handing it to him there. “I’m aware that I’ve been selfish today,” he admitted, remembering Will’s hesitation to even step foot in the farmer’s market; how Will had suffered for him. “Thank you for joining me.” 

All Hannibal received in response was a quick groan, as his companion was more interested in gulping down his water than holding a conversation. As unacceptable as this behavior would have been in anyone else, in Will it was charming; nearly every wall he had built had been battered down with effort, good food, alcohol-- all that was left was Will Graham, tired and tipping his head back onto the back of the couch, perfectly vulnerable. A sight to behold. His Adam’s apple stuck out, just a touch, and Hannibal remembered when he had brushed it with his fingers, all those months ago, soothing him through surgery unaided by anesthetics. He missed holding his darling’s head in his hands, feeling his carotid artery, touching at him more intimately than anyone else could hope to do. “Perhaps you should go to bed?” It was true-- Will looked half asleep where he sat. 

“In a second,” Will answered, voice so low and gravelly with exhaustion and alcohol that it was more of a rumble from his throat than actual speech. He remained right where he was, breaths evening, eyes closing, hands clasped together on his lap. 

Pursing his lips, Hannibal considered his next step for a moment. Here, he could hesitate-- what danger was there in inaction now? Will appeared half asleep, if not more so. Quietly, he stepped behind the couch and placed his hands on his husband’s shoulders. Gently, he let his fingertips press into them, basking in the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Softly, he leaned down and held his lips just above the curls on Will’s head, just enough for him to feel a tickle on his chin. “Darling,” he spoke quietly, voice barely above a whisper, “I’d hate for you to have to spend the night on the couch.” 

In response, Will made a low noise in his throat and twisted his head away. How wonderfully serendipitous that he had made no move to remove Hannibal’s hands. Using this to his advantage, he pressed gentle fingers into the skin of his husband’s shoulders, massaging the damaged muscle there. He could feel the difference in scar tissue between both shoulders; could feel the warmth of him, smell him perfectly. “ _Mon cher_ ,” Hannibal tried again, this time with the aid of his hands to bring his sweet boy back to wakefulness; “The bedroom is mere steps away.” 

This did the trick; Will rolled his shoulders, and Hannibal obliged by taking his hands off of them. “You don’t have to say it like _that_ ,” he ground out, rubbing at his eyes and face in an attempt to wake himself. 

“Sorry?” Hannibal asked, all innocence, “I’m not sure what you mean.” Of course he knew, he had phrased his words carefully. Connotation was one of the best tools at his disposal; then again, so was plausible deniability. 

Will, who had effectively admitted to his mind being in the gutter, stood up, facing away from him; the nape of his neck had adopted the splotchy red blush that Hannibal increasingly wanted to lavish with kisses. Instead, he watched as Will wobbled to their shared room, fingers beginning what would surely be an extended struggle with his shirt buttons. As soon as he made it inside, he kicked the door shut. 

Hannibal followed. Opening the door, he found his darling sat on the bed, brows drawn together, focusing quite hard on the second button of his shirt. “Would you like some help?” He found himself on the receiving end of a very bleary glare. 

“S’fine.” 

Was it? Alright-- Hannibal demurred, making himself comfortable on his velvet chair and enjoying the show. Will struggled with the second button, the third, and on the fourth he dropped his head down and sighed, eyeing the bed with an expression that had Hannibal on his feet before Will could so much as _consider_ falling asleep in his clothes. He had already allowed Saucisse up in the mornings, and clothes in bed was where he drew the line. “Will.” 

This caught his husband’s attention-- somewhere during their two years together, Will had gotten so used to being called ‘Henry’ that the sound of his own name was almost a shock. Brows crawling toward his hairline, he answered, “Yes?” 

“Let me do that for you. There’s no need to sleep in your clothes.” Hannibal stood in front of him, hands forward and ready to begin. All he needed was permission; based on the slow smile growing on his husband’s face, he suspected it would come soon. 

Will turned his head away, dropping his hands. “This is embarrassing.” He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his own voice. How much had he had to drink? A few glasses of wine? Back in Wolf Trap he could have handled twice the alcohol with more grace. 

“We all have our moments,” Hannibal answered, leaning forward and helping with the next button. He would have preferred that most nights ended with his husband being undressed by his hands, but he could live with the rarity for now. “It’s not too unlike our time in Florence.” 

This earned him a snort of laughter. “I got shot and you tried to eat my brain.” 

That wasn’t an entirely inaccurate description of their time together, Hannibal had to admit. “How lucky that I failed.” He undid the next button carefully, methodically. He took his time, allowing his fingers to brush against the skin-warmed fabric of his husband’s shirt. 

“Mm,” Will answered, ever the skilled conversationalist. There was a moment of silence, before Hannibal felt more than saw Will’s head turn, felt curls of hair against his shoulder. Wine-scented breaths. Warmth blooming against his skin. His fingers paused in their work, and for a moment he was half sure the time had come; the trap he had laid, lovingly, carefully, had finally caught him. Years of effort, patience, come to perfect fruition. All it would take was Will lifting his head. Will, turning toward him. Will, lips dry, pressing against his own. How would he start? Hannibal had imagined hundreds, thousands of scenarios that would lead them to this point; he had devised plans for stripping Will slowly, kissing every inch of skin on his darling’s body. All it would take was the weight against his shoulder turning toward his lips. Mere seconds of time. One simple move, and Hannibal would _have him_. They remained there, still, for a few moments. Hannibal didn’t dare speak; it was Will who broke the silence after some time, grumbling out a quiet, “‘M tired.” 

...Of course he was. No, the time had not come, even if the circumstances were perfect. What a bittersweet feeling it was, to learn he would have to wait another night. No matter. “You’ve had quite the day,” Hannibal replied, fingers quick to unfasten the last of the buttons. He turned away, toward their dresser, and pulled out Will’s pajamas before setting them down on the bed. “I trust that you can handle the rest yourself. If you’ll excuse me, I need to shower-- do you want me to wake you up to tie us together?” 

This elicited another laugh from Will, even as he rubbed at his face to stay awake. They both knew the hypocrisy of it all. “If you wouldn’t mind?” 

“I offered.” Satisfied, at least for now, Hannibal closed the door to the master bathroom. He was alone, with naught but his hands. They would do. 

He turned the shower knob, and out poured their water, already hot before Hannibal could test it. Ah, the joys of high-end living; how he had missed these obscure little pleasures. Speaking of-- he checked that he had locked the door, before unbuttoning his shirt and stripping out of it, folding it, and placing it on the counter. He was just as meticulous with his trousers, his socks, his shoes. Even if they were destined for the hamper sooner than later, it never hurt to be careful. He took a deep breath, and upon exhalation stepped over the lip of the tub and into the spray of water. 

He would have taken his time with Will. He would have dragged the tips of his fingers against Will’s skin, feather-light. He would have touched at his carotid artery, felt his heartbeat. Felt the warmth of his breath. The velvet of his skin. He would have brushed his fingertip along his clavicle, before dragging it up the hill of his Adam’s apple. Touching the lightest bristle of stubble. He would have felt Will’s jaw, strong and sharp and tense to the touch, and he would have tipped his head back. Leaned forward. Pressed his lips against Will’s own, felt the delicate curve of his cupid’s bow. The Will who existed in his mind would have sighed, closed his eyes, let himself fall back onto the bed, their bed, and looped his arms around Hannibal’s neck. 

Hannibal knew the sound of lips touching one another; the wet smack of kissing, almost lurid against the quiet of the night. He was less familiar with the exact burn of Will’s stubble against his cheeks, but his imagination kindly filled in those gaps. He would have touched at Will’s shoulders, let his hands slip beneath the cotton of his shirt. He would have glanced up, a silent plea toward his personal deity for a more exploratory worship. And Will would have allowed it. He would have shrugged out of his sleeves, left clad in only the last vestiges of his button down, a lovely present half unopened. Will would have let himself fall back to the bed fully, then, let himself accept Hannibal’s hands on him, dragging down the soft skin of his chest until he touched upon the next button. Hannibal would have left a trail of kisses down his chest at every patch of newly discovered skin. He would have paid tithe to the scar on Will’s stomach with his lips and tongue. No sacrifice would be enough for Will, not when that mottled blush threatened to overcome his face and chest entirely. 

He would have focused so thoroughly on that beloved scar that he would feel another insistence pressing against him, pushing against the woolen cage of Will’s trousers. Hannibal would notice it, pull back-- admire the length of him, straining against its confinement. It would be a cruelty to try to contain it. With gentle hands, he would have unbuttoned Will’s trousers, and with his teeth he would pull down the zip. The Will Graham living in his mind palace would have watched, face and lips red, open-mouthed. Hannibal would have let him-- he would have watched right back. 

Hannibal would have held that eye contact as he pulled Will’s cock from its confines, would have watched Will’s face as he opened his mouth and tipped his head and let his lips run against the length of him. He would have felt Will’s heartbeat against his tongue. In the depths of his mind palace, Will was propped up on one elbow, the hand of the other arm touching at his lips to hold back any sound that dared escape. 

In the silken confines of his mind, Hannibal would not have to hold back. He could do as he liked, and all Will Graham could do was lie back and enjoy it. The beatific creature in his mind was his own to pleasure and corrupt. Given the opportunity, he would have swallowed Will down and let his come slide down his throat. 

Instead, he let his own release splatter onto his hand. He raised it to his lips, taking a quick moment to lick it off-- he wondered if the flavors would be similar. Probably; they were on the exact same diet. 

___

  
  


**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  


They were on their ninth consecutive day of physical therapy when Hannibal had decided to broach the subject, hands massaging the ever-thickening scar tissue of Will’s shoulder. He was shirtless, sat down in their bed, lit by lamplight. 

How interesting that Will Graham could look beautiful in any lighting whatsoever; was it his features? The broad sharpness of the jawline, the slope of his nose in profile? Hannibal couldn’t say. “Tell me Will,” he began, adopting the comfortable old conversational techniques of another life, “After you recovered from our spat at my old property-- what did you do next?” 

Halfway through the question, Will went tense. “After our _spat_?” He paused, wiping a hand over his face. “Is that what you think that was?” 

“Perhaps ‘spat’ was euphemistic,” Hannibal answered, lightening his touch on Will’s shoulder lest he risk further injury, “But I must admit that I’m curious-- what was life like for you?” He had remembered seeing Will again a mere eight months after their altercation; what had passed through that mind of his, compelling Will to chase him? What were his motivations, now? 

Will went quiet for a moment, hunching forward-- away from Hannibal’s hands. “It’s a little…” God. So much of that time was a blur-- he remembered being released from the hospital. He remembered fixing up his boat; sailing. The endless blue of the ocean around him. The compulsion. “Sometimes I wonder if you didn’t have some kind of-- string. Pulling me to you.” He didn’t look back to check for a response; he didn’t want to. “There was a sense of inevitability. I don’t remember any uncertainty-- I knew I’d find you.” In retrospect, he’d had no idea what he had wanted to do; he only knew that he needed to find Hannibal, meet him on equal footing. There was no more doctor-patient relationship; for however long a time they were confidants, that had ended, too. In a way they were strangers, feeling each other out through the dark expanse of the world, forced to come together by nature. “Maybe it wasn’t a string-- it was more… primordial. Physical. You had a gravitational pull.” 

The hands on his shoulders stopped, if only for a quarter of a second. “And now?” 

Will dipped his head down again, snorting a quiet laugh. “What do you think?” Of course it hadn’t changed-- how else would they be here? Whatever force of nature it was that brought them together, it wanted them to _stay_ together. Maybe it was just Hannibal; maybe it was something that echoed between the both of them. He remembered the emptiness that followed him across the Atlantic. “I fixed up my boat and sailed to Italy,” he said simply, as if it were as impersonal as a plane ride. 

Hannibal’s hands stopped outright this time. Will felt the doctor’s thumb creep up his neck, rub against where the nape met the base of his skull. If his mouth felt dry, if he swallowed a gulp, neither of them mentioned it. “You sailed across the ocean for me?” 

The words came out of his mouth before he could even consider them: “Not just for you.” As Hannibal’s thumb returned to his shoulder, a gap grew between them; yawning, fracturing every moment of peace they had collected between them, in this little game of house they played. That gap was the size and shape of Abigail Hobbs, thrown into their world and tossed out with equal carelessness. With equal cruelty. 

She was just a girl. That was all she was-- just a girl from Minnesota who had been forced into a life that wasn’t meant for anyone. All she had wanted was to stay alive. To live her life. 

And Hannibal had taken that from her. All of his other kills, Will could understand. He knew the wretched twists and turns of Hannibal’s mind well enough-- in some way, through the lens of his vile logic, most of his victims had deserved what they received. Hell, he had sent Beverly to her death; she’d ignored the legal system, ignored basic civil rights when she had broken into Hannibal’s house. There was rhyme and reason to them, no matter how macabre that reason was. But _Abigail_. 

Will leaned forward, away from Hannibal’s touch entirely. He put his head in his hands. Rubbed at his eyes. Abigail hadn’t deserved it. She was just a girl. A sweet, twisted, manipulative girl who did everything she could to survive. She’d fought so hard, for so long. She didn’t deserve the end she got. She didn’t deserve any of it. His voice shook when he next spoke,“I think I’m about done with this for the night, Doctor.” He stood up and left the room; he walked out of the hallway and beelined for Bedelia’s bar cart. 

He returned hours later, face red, and was rough when he finally tied their wrists together. It was a good thing that Hannibal had stayed up reading, because he was sure he would have registered Will’s ministrations as an attack if he were any less cognizant. Hannibal tried to break the silence first. “Will--” 

“Don’t. Just-- don’t.” As far as he could without risking any further injury to his shoulder, Will turned away from him. Curled into himself in something close to a fetal position, head down so as to protect himself. It was as much of a rejection to Hannibal’s company as he could manage, and all the doctor could do was watch. 

So this was to be the line they could not cross. A wound, festering and frayed at the edges, one that Hannibal could not salve or treat. He wanted to reach forward, feel at the warmth of Will’s back, twisted as it was to avoid him. 

He remembered killing Abigail. He remembered slitting her throat, feeling the arterial spray burst from her as if it had begged to be set free. He had finished what her biological father couldn’t; he’d fulfilled a prophecy that had been carved into her throat that day in Minnesota, years ago. And he had done it to spite the man before him. He had acted with the express purpose of hurting Will, tearing from him any glimpse he could have had at paternal happiness; a normal life. At the time, his anger had felt so justified; he was the Medea to Will’s Jason, taking from him his legacy. It had been a punishment that fit the crime. 

And now that punishment returned to them both, chafed and withered with time. Will looked smaller than usual, curled up against himself. Even as only inches separated them, he had never felt quite so far away. 

  
  


___

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  


“We’re spending a week in Rouen after this,” Will hissed, quiet as he could manage with a stranger looping tailor’s tape around his thigh. Will was stood in the middle of an enormous studio on the fourth floor of a building so fancy he’d never consider walking into it. The whole lobby was adorned with gold florets, arabesque swoops and swirls of the French rococo. The studio was not much better-- there were bolts of luscious velvets, muslins, wools, silks that were so soft that Will’s very fingertips snagged on them, all arranged in shelves around the room, some of them resting on enormous worktables. He felt like he was preparing for some kind of fashion event. “Hell, we’re staying in a cabin after this.” Just the studio felt like too much, too many people milling about, too many hands working on too many things-- he couldn’t imagine how miserable the gala was going to be. 

Hannibal flipped through a catalogue, pointing out different fabrics to an assistant that waited on his every order; “Anything you like, darling. Thomas, do you have this silk in a slate gray?” Oh, god. Why were they talking about silk?   
  
The tailor with his hands on Will’s thigh looked up and gave him an understanding grin. “We have a few wines available, if that might take the edge off?” She offered in French, her accent tinged with something else. Will couldn’t quite place it. 

As tempting as the offer was, he wasn’t going to get sloshed again anytime soon; not after Hannibal had to help him out of his _shirt_. He swallowed his private mortification, though, instead answering, “Could I have some water, actually?” 

She nodded, before snapping her fingers at Thomas and pointing toward an adjoining kitchen. Off the assistant went, without question; for a second he pitied the young man who poured him a fresh glass of water, his big eyes desperate for some kind of positive affirmation. Will nodded at him with a pained smile, accepting it. “ _Merci beaucoup_ ,” he managed quietly, before taking a long drink of it. Anything to keep him distracted from the middle aged woman measuring his inseam. 

That pity dissolved the moment he saw Thomas run to a shelf and pull out a bolt of the shiniest blue silk he’d ever seen; it shimmered differently depending on how the light touched it, and good _god_ did it look expensive. Watching him hurry to Hannibal for apparent consideration was… yeah, looking in Hannibal’s direction wasn’t helping. He turned back to the tailor who had measuring tape right against his groin, staring it down with a focused eye. At least her professional detachment was comforting. What was there to say? ‘Do you measure people often?’ Of course she did, that was her job. There was nothing he could do to fill the silence that wasn’t more excruciating than the silence itself, so he just pressed his lips into a thin line and waited it out. 

Eventually, after many, _many_ measurements of his body, he was finally released. “That’s about all,” his tailor, Madame Johannsen, said, lifting herself up from her knees and wiping off her hands. “Thank you for your patience, dear, I know this process isn’t easy on some people-- but I suspect you’ll thank me later for it.” She followed this up with a quick wink, before turning away from him with a flourish and making for Hannibal, pivoting to textiles. 

Will just made his way to the table and watched as his alleged ‘husband’ layered a few bolts of fabric together while Thomas and Madame Johannsen looked on. “I do quite like the dove gray wool-- can we manage that for the second suit?” There was vigorous nodding, followed by further reshuffling of the fabrics. 

One key phrase, however, Will wanted some elaboration on. “Second suit?” 

Hannibal turned to him with a smile, radiating a mix of joy and pure smugness that half of Will wanted to punch right off his damned face. “I figured we could add a few extra pieces to your wardrobe, especially considering that winter isn’t too far off.” He turned to Madame Johannsen, fingers tapping on a thick black wool. “When will his coat be available?” Okay, so he was being referred to as if he weren’t even in the room. This was how today was going to go. 

No point in staying with them, then; instead, Will wandered toward the windows of the studio, admiring the cityscape ahead of him. Wherever any green might have been, it had turned to shades of yellow, gold, red, brown; some trees were already beginning to look barren. And there were so many buildings; so many people, milling through the streets. A city like this felt too big for him; there was too much information on all sides of him, crowding him into himself. 

He missed nature. He missed the perfect disorder of the woods behind his old house in Wolf Trap; he missed feeling twigs snap under his boots. Out there, away from anyone but his dogs, he felt safe. The woods were an enclosure of safety, of wildness that would never betray him like busy cities did. Wilderness had its own logic, its own set of rules that were simple, unchanging; here around other people, the rules of socializing were always shifting. He could never quite find his footing. 

But he had agreed to this life with Hannibal knowing it wouldn’t be comfortable. He just hadn’t expected his new life to feel so strange, sometimes. A skin stretched around a skeleton it was never meant for. He felt a hand touching at the small of his back before he felt Hannibal next to him. “We’re done,” Hannibal said quietly, thoroughly invading his personal space. Will suspected that Hannibal liked being out in public for this very reason: to hold him close and touch him as if they were actual lovers, instead of two people trapped in an agreement together. It must have said something about Will that he had grown used to it. He remembered the hands on him the other day, the way Hannibal could press against him and have Will relax into his touch before he could stop himself. God forbid that his companion realize it. “Ready to go home?”   
  
“Very ready,” Will answered with a half-smile, visibly exhausted. 

Once back outside, walking through the brisk cold of the day, Will finally asked what had been weighing on his mind. “Exactly how much is this going to cost?” 

Hannibal, ever laconic when the subject of money came up, only shrugged. “Think of this as a gift. I’d been meaning to get you a new winter coat, anyway.” 

Something about the way Hannibal had phrased his last sentence irked him. He’d been _meaning_ to? Will went quiet, looking forward to parse through his thoughts. He could buy himself a coat. Besides, the one he had was just fine-- Hannibal had bought it for him their first winter in Rouen, and it was still in great condition. “I like this coat,” Will replied, “It’s not like I need a new one.” 

“I’m aware.” 

There was a beat of silence. Will felt the words push through his lips almost before he could stop them. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“I know.” 

Hannibal made no attempt to contradict Will in any of this-- they both knew he didn’t have to purchase his clothes. If he needed something, Will could buy it himself. This left one question: “Then why?” Why all of the new clothes? There had to be a reason. Every single action of Hannibal’s was motivated by some kind of impetus. What was driving him to buy things for him, out of all things?   
  
Hannibal’s eyes slid in his direction, and Will tensed. “Does there have to be a reason?” 

Despite himself, Will forced his lips into a twisted facsimile of a smile. His eyes darted in Hannibal’s direction. “With you, yes.” 

“In another life, you were a very skilled profiler. Tell me,” the doctor began, hands tucked comfortably in his coat pockets, “What are my motivations?” If Hannibal had any ulterior motives, he wasn’t going to be the one to vocalize them. Will knew enough; if he wanted to exhume their filthy little secrets from the darkness, he could. 

He didn’t. He only stared ahead, jaw set. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, new chapter! This one wasn't quite as long as usual, but then again my last chapter was wayyy longer, so this is sort of taking it easy. :) 
> 
> This is also my first time in awhile writing, uh, you know, so thank you for your patience if it's not great! Hannibal's slightly lascivious thoughts were in part inspired by the song To Be Alone, by Hozier-- you can find it here on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnF-dZvXwWE
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy it! I had a lot of fun writing this, and a lot of it was a fun new challenge! Finally, I'm pleased to announce that the fallout from Abigail's death is in no way over, and in some ways just beginning. :) I still think that the show could have addressed it a little more, but that's what fanfic is for! :D


	9. A Change In Perspective

**Paris, France**

  
  


Hannibal always came to him unbidden. Ideally, when he did this, he would think of nothing. His hand would move southward, grasp, and his mind could effectively feel _nothing_. His body would seep into ink-black water, and the rest of him could drift off into static. Sure, there was a rhythm, matching the one of his wrist, but it barely registered past the simple joy of quiet flooding through his mind. 

Until Hannibal stepped in. It began with the sound of a door opening, regardless of whether or not Will had locked it. The door would open. He would be standing in his only source of privacy, of solace, and Hannibal would walk right into it. From behind the pane of glass that separated them, Hannibal would unbutton his shirt, starting from the top. He knew Will would see him; he would watch right back. The only sound in the room was the spray of the shower against tile. Hannibal would fold his shirt before starting on his slacks, head tilting down to unbutton them. His eyes would still peer up at him, though. Teasing him. Knowing the way Will’s eyes trailed the lines of his body, as if Will had a choice. 

The only difference between the Hannibal that lived and breathed in his mind and the one in reality was patience. Flesh-and-blood Hannibal Lecter was nothing if not patient: he’d wait for Will to break first, take that first step into uncharted territory. They both knew that. 

But it was more convenient for the choice to be taken from him altogether. There was a difference between a verbal offering and physical touch, and if Hannibal were to initiate _that_ , it would only be a matter of seconds until Will succumbed entirely. This was why, in reality, Hannibal was reading in bed; within the confines of the bathroom, and more specifically those of Will’s mind, Hannibal had just stripped nude and opened the shower door. There was nothing Will could do about it-- how could he fight off a fantasy? No, all he could do was wait, standing in the warm spray, and feel rough hands brush his hair out of his face. Rough hands, cupping his face and running down his neck; grasping his shoulders. All he could do was melt into the touch. 

When was the last time he’d held someone close? With Molly? God-- that belonged to Hannibal, too. When they were first visiting the apartment. Nothing was his own anymore; not his body, not even his mind. Will dipped his head forward, felt the warmth of Hannibal’s shoulder against his forehead. There was no point in denying it here; no point in fighting back. He just felt the arms loop around his sides, the hand that trailed up his spine and landed on the nape of his neck. Grounding him. Skin slick with water, warm against him. He felt lips at his throat, just against the carotid artery. Hannibal’s voice was rough, vibrating through his chest. “All you have to do is ask, Will. I’d be more than happy to oblige.” He knew. God, he knew. It would be terrifyingly easy: all he’d have to do is shout for Hannibal to join him, and he would. It was always that easy, wasn’t it? He could be in public, in the middle of a street somewhere, and all it would take was a look. An offer hastily made, whispered into Hannibal’s ear. There were so many dinners where he could have taken advantage, wine-drunk and weak to temptation. All he’d have to do was give in _once._

It would be as easy as falling, and he’d done that already, hadn’t he? He felt one Hannibal’s hands slip back around his ribcage, glide down his abdomen. “Such sweet and easy peace,” Hannibal supplied, voice so low Will felt more than heard it, “I could give that to you. Quiet your mind for you.” He knew. He _knew_. He could shatter into a million pieces in Hannibal’s hands, let himself fall apart. He knew Hannibal would put him back together, piece by piece. He just didn’t know what shape he’d be in by the end of it. The hand finally came to rest on him, hard and aching. It wouldn’t take much; not now. Not after years of this tension. 

He didn’t know how many strokes it took. All he knew was that there was a hand on the back of his neck and a hand on his dick, and promises of pleasure and debauchery whispered into his ear. He knew he was trembling more than a man masturbating alone in his shower had any right to be. He knew Hannibal would watch him through this moment, categorize his reactions, distill every detail of his experience into something that would break Will beyond all recognition. He came. 

The rest of the shower was quick; perfunctory. He changed into his pajamas before leaving the bathroom, meeting Hannibal in their now-shared room. It was always a touch awkward, after-- that. Occasionally his mind would wander, and it would take an unsavory path. That was it. If nothing else, he was just-- relieving an urge. Will sat in bed, watching as Saucisse trotted to her own; he pulled his book from the nightstand, cracking it open to read. 

To anyone looking in, he knew they’d look like a married couple-- reading right before bed, the dog falling asleep at her spot, the comfortable silence they shared. It was so painfully domestic; he remembered nights where he’d do the same with Molly, bundling up under old quilts. Watching a movie together in the comfort of their bed. At least he had the small comfort of knowing that Hannibal and he would never cuddle. 

Ugh. The very word was anathema to Hannibal-- anything related to vulnerability or softness was. He glanced at his bed partner, all sharp angles and crisp edges; sadly, Hannibal caught him in the act. “What are you thinking about?” 

For a half-second, Will considered lying. “Molly,” he admitted, fiddling with the open page of his book, “Remembering old habits.” 

“How sentimental.” 

Will could still feel his companion’s eyes on him. He kept his own on his book. “At least one of us can be.”

Instead of the insult it was, Hannibal politely asked, “What habits were you thinking of?” 

Will went quiet, considering his next words. Any information about his old life could be used as ammunition with Hannibal. He’d have to tread carefully. “Winters back in Wolf Trap, actually,” Will tried, the words almost foreign in his mouth-- when had he ever discussed his old life with Hannibal? Was this the very first time? “Wally and I would go ice fishing, I’d go home and cook it up. We’d eat watching some animated movie.” He still remembered Wally’s obsession with _Up_. How he’d tie balloons to a small birdhouse Will made for him, try and see where it would go. 

“Dinner and a show,” Hannibal supplied, setting down his own book and folding his hands. “Do you enjoy cinema?”   
  
Will frowned, a distant expression in his eyes. “Not particularly.” It was nice to sit in silence with the people he loved. Bundling up against the cold, huddled together with his family and the dogs-- his own little pack. Well, not necessarily _little_ , considering the number of quadruped family members, but they could bundle up into a tight enough space. He remembered how Winston would snuggle up against his legs, Buster in his lap. Walter to his side, Molly next to Walter-- reaching out together and holding hands behind him. They were a family, and they were happy. In so many ways, he’d felt content. Will looked past the pages of his book, watched his and Hannibal’s feet under the covers of their bed. He couldn’t quite put a finger on what he felt right then-- somewhere between comfortable and sad. There was a contentment there, too. He didn’t know why. Maybe with the addition of Saucisse, he’d started something like a new pack altogether. 

He sighed, dipping his head back against their plush headboard. Every so often he drew sordid little parallels between his old life and his current one, and every time it created a hole of guilt in his stomach; like he was cheating on Molly, somehow. Obviously his and Hannibal’s relationship was platonic, in part because Will made sure of that. But then they’d read together in bed, or walk home as the sun was beginning to set, or Will would wake up in a cold sweat after a nightmare and feel fingers brushing against his forehead, and it felt-- wrong. In moments like those, they weren’t just in a mutual agreement of imprisonment, so much as they were just two legitimate husbands. Two people who liked one another enough to spend their lives together. 

It scared the shit out of him. If they stayed like this, really spent their lives together like this-- he knew that one day he’d give into it. Just like every human being adapts to their environment, he’d fall into Hannibal’s domestic fantasy. Hannibal would get the happy ending he wanted, and in some way Will would find happiness that way, too. 

But then he’d remember Abigail. He’d remember the way she had relied on them, the way she’d trusted them. Trusted Hannibal. The tears in her eyes that evening, all those years ago. The terror in her face as she’d bled out onto the floor. In the right context, those memories were almost comforting-- his one line in the sand that kept him from any bad decisions. This was an agreement, nothing more. 

  
  
  
  


___

  
  


**Baltimore, Maryland**

  
  


The death of Will Graham had been the feather on the back of an already overloaded camel. Jack Crawford could only live with so many regrets, and pulling a good man away from his family and back into the fray had been one too many. How many times could he break a man down? How many times did Will Graham pull himself back together in aching little pieces before Jack went and crushed him again? 

The answer was only so many. After Will sacrificed himself to take down Dolarhyde and Lecter, Jack had finally decided that enough was enough. The FBI had hurt plenty of people, and Jack was one of the worst offenders-- he wouldn’t inflict himself on anyone else. Yes, he had saved lives and dispensed justice, but he’d also been an integral part of a system that took many more. 

So two years ago, he retired. There would be no more Miriam Lasses, no more Will Grahams. It was just him. Just him and his computer and his keyboard and his stumbling attempts at mystery novels, a framed picture of his Bella at his desk, and his lifetime of regrets. 

He hadn’t realized just how lonely he was until he retired. Work had taken up so much of the day; he’d been so absorbed in it that everything outside of his career had fallen to the wayside. Sure, he still caught up with Price and Zeller, every so often-- but it wasn’t comfortable. The shadow of their old relationship still hung over them. So he sat at his desk and wrote stories that sounded hollow to his own ears, idealized and perfected to the point of being barely recognizable. The men he knew were damaged, distorted into something else throughout their time in the FBI. The men he wrote about were heroes. They did what was right. 

They never sat alone on their couches, takeout on the table, wondering what would have happened if they’d had better judgment. The men who lived in his computer weren’t anchored down and drowning in regrets. There was an escapist element to his writing, a means of taking control over his own narrative; his therapist had told him that. He could have guessed that himself, with enough time. Enough reflection. 

In some ways, he was lucky just to get to this point. Half the men he knew back in his academy days were dead; the rest were either close to retirement or completely different people, at this point. Maybe both. Jack looked down at his hands for a moment, noticed their callouses. Maybe he’d changed, too. 

He was startled out of his thoughts by a phone call; to him? At, what, 8:30 in the evening? Hauling himself up, Jack walked to the end table and picked it up, checking the caller ID-- what was Molly Helmstedder calling him for? “Jack Crawford,” he began, a leftover habit from his time in the field. 

“Hey, Jack,” replied Molly, and he could already hear the smile in her voice. “I just wanted to call you about something.”   
  
“Well, you’ve called. What can I do for you?” Phone in hand, he walked back to his couch and settled in. It never hurt to catch up. 

“Uh, about that,” Molly began-- her voice sounded almost nervous, somehow. “I actually wanted to talk about this for awhile, but there was never any real opportunity to discuss it. It’s just-- look.” She paused, seemed to take a breath. “I really appreciate what you and the FBI have done for Wally and me.”   
  


What they’d done? Jack shifted in his seat, focused. What had the FBI done? They’d cut ties with the Grahams as soon as Will’s vested assets had been disbursed to them. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Mrs. Graham.” 

“Oh, it’s actually Miss Helmstedder now, going by the maiden name again. Too many memories.” Her voice trailed off for a moment, and Jack understood. It was hard to continue with life when your last name came from a dead man. “Anyway, um, I wanted to talk about the-- I don’t know if it’s some sort of 401k disbursement, or some kind of pension, or god forbid some kind of charity,” this was punctuated with a nervous laugh, “But I wanted you to know that you really don’t need to keep up with it. Wally and I are fine.” 

What? Jack leaned back, crossing his legs. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Miss Helmstedder. Will Graham’s assets had been placed in your name after his death; the FBI hasn’t been paying you anything else.” He paused. “Did you think we were?” Even after retiring, he still identified with the FBI; funny. There was a beat of silence from the other end of the line. Two. “Miss Helmstedder?” 

“Yeah, sorry. Um. I’m just not sure where it’s coming from.” She inhaled, signed, and then continued, “We’ve been getting about twenty-five hundred dollars a month, and I thought-- maybe it was coming from the FBI? Maybe you?”   
  
This caught Jack’s attention. “You’re receiving thirty thousand dollars per year. Anonymously?” That was… strange. Sure, it was possible that the Vergers were trying to help out-- god knew they had the resources for it. But _would_ they? They were never interested in Molly; maybe it was some sort of guilt complex? “It is possible that the Vergers could be donating it to you?” 

“I’m sorry, who?” 

Jack paused. She didn’t even know them-- of course not. If nothing else Will was a vault. He’d made a clear delineation between work and home, and this was just proof of it. “Uh-- don’t worry about it. They’re some old acquaintances of Will’s; I can call them and look into it for you.”   
  
There was no hesitation on the other end of the line as Molly answered, “Jack, you really don’t have to do that--” 

“I know,” he cut in, stopping Molly before she could get another word in, “I want to. If it’s the Vergers, I’ll ask them to stop. You don’t have to get too involved in--”   
  
“ _Jack_.” Oh, god. He knew that tone-- Bella had had a similar one, back when she’d force him to take a vacation. “If it’s them, I’d at least like to speak with them myself.” 

Funny, how the dead still clung to the living; Molly’s fierceness wasn’t entirely unlike Will Graham’s. He could see why they’d fallen in love. “Fine, alright. I’ll arrange a conference call.” He’d arrange a conference call after checking with the Vergers. It never hurt to be sure. 

“Thank you. And-- I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, okay?”   
  
This was money coming from an anonymous source, possibly associated with Will Graham. And Will Graham meant-- well. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility, but… “I just think this is an avenue worth looking into. I won’t make a bigger deal out of it than it already is. I’ll reach out tomorrow about a conference call.” With the next steps planned, he hung up. Set his phone aside, brushing his hand against the slight bristle of his face. He had another call to make. 

Doctor Bloom picked up on the sixth ring. “Jack?” she began, “Why are you calling?” 

No point in awkward introductions. “Are you sending Graham’s widow twenty-five hundred dollars per month?” 

“What are you talking about?” That was tantamount to a ‘no,’ then. Jack’s thumb was on the ‘end call’ button when Alana managed to stop him. “ _Jack_.” 

He sighed, dipping his head and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. What had he come to that he couldn’t end a phone call? “Yes?” 

“What’s this about? Is she getting money from somewhere?” 

Of course she’d ask questions-- they had the same line of thinking. If there was any chance that Hannibal Lecter was alive, she’d want to know. “She is. An anonymous donation; I was hoping it was from you.” 

Alana went quiet. A moment passed, before Jack finally heard, “If it’s him-- whatever needs to be done, we can fund it.” 

Jack found himself looking at the television; it all looked fake. “If it’s him, I’ll kill him myself. I need to make some more calls.” 

“Keep us updated.” 

“I will.” With that, he hung up, mind already on the next task-- he needed to ask for a few favors from Price and Zeller. 

  
  


___

  
  


**Paris, France**

Hannibal and Will had made it to La Sorbonne early; they had thirty or so minutes to kill, and admiring the local sights had become a sort of pastime for Will-- taking the lead, they wandered around Square Foucault, with the occasional ‘prisoner’ jokes from Hannibal, and the increasingly constant falling of leaves. This led them to the slim little street between the Square and Collège de France, and, not entirely surprisingly, to one of Hannibal’s students. Charlotte Reese stood against the wall of the Collège on emaciated legs, finishing off the tail end of a cigarette while pulling another out of the carton. She looked outright miserable; her under eye circles were particularly pronounced. Next to her was a young gentleman, also leaned artfully against the wall, tilting his head in her direction with a sneer. It was a picture of-- something. Whatever kind of interaction it was, it wasn’t friendly. 

Hannibal stopped Will in place, taking his hand before ducking behind a van. When Will opened his mouth to speak, Hannibal only placed one quieting finger on his lips, straining to eavesdrop. It took a few moments to sort through the ambient noise, to hear the young man’s tinny voice. “-- because you _know_ how this is going to turn out. At this rate, you’re just hurting people. You realize that, right? You need to take responsibility.” Will seemed to catch on, leaning against the van to better hear the conversation. 

Miss Reese had always had a soft voice, but today there was a hard edge to it as she spoke. “I would love to know what kind of mental gymnastics are going through your mind right now. If you think this is _my_ fault--” 

“I know this is your fault,” the man’s voice hissed, “Do you really think that they’re gonna stop if you just ignore it? You’re stupid, babe, but you’re not that stupid.” There was a pause, and the young man’s voice was dipped in honey as he continued, “You know we’d be there for you. You don’t have to keep doing this alone. You don’t even know how to take care of yourself, Charlie. When’s the last time you had a decent meal?” 

Charlotte must have lit her next cigarette, because the scent of smoke redoubled in Hannibal’s nostrils. “We both know you don’t give a shit about what I eat. Either help me out or leave me alone.” 

There was something soft and sad in the young man’s voice as he said, “You know I can’t, babe. I wish I could, but--” 

“Then why are we still talking?” Her voice was ice. 

The young man almost sounded hurt. “You’re still a frigid bitch, huh?”   
  
Just barely, Hannibal could make out a puff of smoke from the direction of his little bird. “Never stopped being one.” 

The conversation had to have come to an end; the young man stalked off with his hands jammed into his pockets, and Charlotte remained where she was, halfway through another cigarette. Will pulled away from the van, eyes on Hannibal. “What was that about?” 

“I’d like to know the same myself,” Hannibal answered, eyes already back on the girl, peeling away from the van. Did this have anything to do with the recent murders, or was this just another thread to be plucked loose from the unraveling mystery? No point in keeping the secret anymore, if he intended on digging further: “I’m concerned that she may be involved with the Pont des Arts murders.” 

This got Will’s attention. “Wait--” he shocked his head, trying to make sense of this apparent jump. “How-- why? You can’t just start suspecting everyone you meet.” Hannibal hesitated to answer for a quarter second too long, and that was enough for the realization to hit him like a train. He took Hannibal’s wrist in his hand, pulling him close. “What the hell did you find?” As soft as his voice was, he sounded _livid_. 

“A journal,” Hannibal answered simply, wrapping his free hand around the one holding his wrist in place, “It had sketches of the murders, some notes. There was nothing fully incriminating, of course, but it didn’t hurt to investigate.” 

Will dipped his head, closing his eyes. “Which is why you invited her to dinner.” Unbelievable. Of course Hannibal had invited a potential murderer to dinner-- they couldn’t have one decent thing without an ulterior motive. There was always a fucking _catch_. 

“Think of it as an investigative instinct,” Hannibal replied, thumb stroking Will’s hand. “At worst, we could be stopping a serial killer. Is that such a bad thing?” 

“Stopping one, or befriending one?” Will asked, taking a moment to lock his eyes with Hannibal’s before letting go of his captive’s wrist and snatching his hand back. He crossed his arms together in a defensive stance, considering his next words. “Don’t you have class to get to, Doctor Ingram?” 

“Henry.” Hannibal’s voice was gentle, his eyes searching Will’s face for-- Will didn’t know. A weakness, probably. “We still have time. Talk to me.” 

It was the command that broke Will; the way Hannibal still thought he could talk to him that way, after all he had done. After he had betrayed Will’s trust, _again_. “I’ll wait outside of your classroom for you to finish up. Why don’t you--” he stopped, unable to find the words, “Just-- prepare for the seminar, or something. Let’s go.” He took Hannibal’s hand in his own, a move that was more suffocating than romantic, and tugged him back to class. 

Thank god there was a window at the end of the hallway leading to Hannibal’s classroom, because otherwise Will was half sure he’d lose his mind. Despite the window, the area still felt so gloomy; that might have been because of his mood, however. He’d watched all of the seminar attendees walk into the classroom, watched the gait of Charlotte Reese as she skulked her way through the building, looking for any signs of psychopathy, of narcissism, of sadism. She was hunched forward with her large backpack, even her smile toward him looking brittle. Had he just missed it? Was she that good at keeping herself in check? Even as his arms were crossed, Will twitched his middle and index finger at her in a small wave. He couldn’t make himself smile, not with this heavy sense of inevitability weighing him down. 

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? It was only a matter of time until Hannibal managed to sniff out some macabre nightmare in the middle of Paris, to stitch it into the fabric of their lives. If it weren’t Reese, it would have been something else-- something about the both of them drew darkness out of the woodwork and into their social circle. There was that gravitational pull again, dragging every monster into their orbit. Was it just Hannibal that brought out the worst in people, or was it the both of them together? He didn’t know. That uncertainty ached inside of him, a pit in the middle of his stomach. While the seminar began, Will pulled out his phone. He’d need to brush up on the investigation. 

The sun hovered over the horizon by the time the seminar was over, watery with smog. Will crept into the classroom just as most of the students were shuffling out, and found Reese just beginning to pack up her pens and highlighters. “Charlotte.” 

She looked confused for a moment, eyes darting between Doctor Ingram and his husband, before closing her backpack and giving him a quick, “Mister Ingram. Um. Hi.” 

Mister Ingram, understanding the awkward introduction, shared a look with his husband. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually.” 

“Sure, what’s up?” Charlotte hefted her backpack over her shoulder, glancing at the door. “Can we walk and talk?” Neither Will nor Hannibal moved. They only watched her, a silent understanding between them, until she set her backpack back down. “Or-- we can talk here, too.” 

Hannibal let Will take the lead, watching as his cunning boy stared the girl down. “Lucius told me that he found a journal in your bag.” 

“Wh--” Reese whipped her head around to Hannibal, aghast. “You went through my things?” There was a moment’s silence, before her mouth opened into a shocked ‘o’. “When you knocked my bag over. That’s not terribly _professional_ , Doctor Ingram.” 

As biting as her words were, Will ignored her. “He found sketches of the recent murders? Can you tell me why you have those?” 

Growing more distraught, Charlotte’s eyes darted between the two of them. “I’m sorry, why are my personal belongings any of your business?” If she was actually sorry, her voice didn’t betray any sense of guilt. 

“Miss Reese,” Hannibal cut in, “You have to understand our perspective, here. Even if I stumbled on that journal by mistake, to anyone who doesn’t know better the circumstances are incriminating.” He paused, eyeing Will, before continuing, “It might be better to know your perspective before we consider going to the police.” There it was: the threat of discovery. Now that the walls were closing in around her, what was the little bird going to do? 

She laughed. She covered her face with her hands for a moment, shoulders shaking with either hysteria or mirth. She was alone in her laughter; Will set his jaw, eyes wide as if ready to fight; Hannibal stood back and let the show play out how would. Even if she were to start an altercation, she had no chance of winning. “Please, feel free to go to the police,” she finally said, unzipping her bag and pulling out that little black journal. She handed it to Will with a smirk, continuing, “Look, I’ve been to the _Commissariat_ over on _Saint-Germain_ six or seven times at this point. Maybe they’ll listen to you.” 

Will accepted the journal, unable to form a response. He opened it, looking at-- yeah, those sketches in black ink were quite nice, if terrifyingly accurate. The notes scratched in ugly handwriting in the margins were tough to read, but generally… “It’s a story,” Will managed, voice soft. “The killer’s writing a narrative.” The journal wasn’t some kind of trophy-- she was gathering evidence. 

Reese crossed her arms, eyes on the journal. “Bit of a personal narrative,” she agreed, tone venomous, mouth twisting into a smile even as her eyes stared into the distance. “You had to have been there.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is! If you saw the other chapter 9 I uploaded and took down, no you didn't. :) 
> 
> That being said, as always, I'd love to know your thoughts on this! I've shifted a few things around, so I know I'm posting this a little late, but that does mean that I'm ahead on chapter 10! :D


	10. Truths Acknowledged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick trigger warning - mentions of drug abuse are in this chapter and going forward!

**Paris, France**

They moved to a quieter locale once the next class was set to start-- namely, Hannibal’s and Will’s apartment. It had been an awkward cab ride. Once inside, Will took a moment to pet Saucisse, stroke her back, pretend that they weren’t spiraling into another nightmare. Hannibal closed the door behind him, the last of the trio to enter the apartment; he offered to take Charlotte’s jacket, but she only stood there, arms crossed. “Well then, Miss Reese. Let’s resume where we’d left off.” 

“Why is a killer after you?” Will asked, eyes on Saucisse. She licked at his hands. 

Charlotte didn’t move; she only looked toward the window, watched the movement of the city before them. “Because he’s an asshole,” She answered, as if that would be enough. She glanced toward Hannibal before amending her speech. “A-- a jerk.”

Will stood back up, stretching his neck. “No, asshole’s right. But he’s not just intimidating you, is he? This is a mind game to him.” He knew he was right by the way Reese’s shoulders went tense. “What’s the object of the game, Charlotte?” He knew his voice was needling, cruel-- but he couldn’t make himself care, not now. He turned to her, watched her every move. 

“The first time I’d provoked him was during a winter back in Jersey,” she answered, every syllable slow. Measured. “At the time he’d wanted me to date him; I told him I’d rather jump off a bridge.” She looked down, almost pleased with herself. “So he took me to a local bridge and gave me a choice.” 

“‘ _ It was worth the frostbite _ ,’” Hannibal muttered, puzzle pieces slatting together in his mind. The body hanged from the Pont des Arts. 

Charlotte, for all of the stress radiating off of her, smiled. “He tried to arrange the body as if she’d jumped-- arms up in the air. He fucked it up, of course. Messed up the arms. He was never that smart.” 

“Smart enough to arrange a body in public,” Will answered, tilting his head to the side with a considering frown. 

The girl before them was different from the one they’d had join them for dinner. Her expression was outright mocking when she looked at Will, then, answering, “You don’t need intelligence for that, you need resources. He has plenty of those.” 

Fair enough. “And the second body?” 

Here, her expression morphed into something more akin to regret. She shrunk in on herself before gathering the courage to speak. “I was a history nerd back in high school-- made the mistake of telling him about Vlad Tepes.” 

“Vlad the Impaler?” Hannibal interjected-- how interesting. Yes, the body had been fully impaled from the rectum to the mouth; it wasn’t inconsistent with how Tepes had originally speared his enemies. And friends, for that matter. 

“He sees himself like him,” Charlotte answered, head dipping again. “A tactician specializing in psychological torment; breaking his enemies’ morale where he couldn’t break them in battle. We used to talk about how he managed to make the Ottoman Empire turn away from his little patch of land in fear.” 

Fascinating. Hannibal was interested in meeting this killer, now. “By impaling a town of his own people.” 

“Delighting in viciousness,” Will murmured, his stare far away; the tapestry of their killer’s psychology was beginning to weave together, if just barely. “The millet for the pigeons was to disgrace the victim; mimicking vultures over battlefields.” He saw himself as a warrior, a relic from a world that no longer existed; a champion among common men. A god among pigs. His eyes darted to Hannibal, noted the focus in his expression; the curious sparkle in his eyes. “What about the third body?” 

Miss Reese finally moved; she uncrossed her arms, shoved them into the pockets of her tattered coat, and wandered the apartment until she came to the window. “That moment she was mine, mine fair,” she began, voice so soft it was barely audible, reciting-- something. Will couldn’t place it, but Hannibal looked outright surprised. “Perfectly pure and good; I found,” she paused, took a breath, “A thing to do, and all her hair--” she dipped her head. “In one long yellow string I wound, Three times her little throat around--” 

Hannibal’s voice rang loud through the comparative quiet of the room, “And strangled her.” Still facing the window, Reese nodded. Her shoulders were hunched around her. “Robert Browning’s  _ Porphyria’s Lover _ . Your killer has romantic motivations.”

“Romance and ownership are two very different things, Doctor Ingram,” Charlotte replied, wiping at her face. “We argued the point of that poem, back in Jersey.” She turned around, eyes darting between her two hosts. “Can I leave now?” 

“If what you’re saying is true,” Will answered, eyes flitting around the room as if trying to keep up with his racing thoughts, “You’re in no state to be walking the city alone. Especially not at night.” 

As if to prove a point, Hannibal meandered about the room himself, fingertips touching at his various art pieces: the glass frame of the Watteau sketch, the Minyao Ming Dynasty vase, the set of books resting next to them. With one mischievous move, he knocked the books over and watched Reese’s reaction-- watched her flinch. Watched her clench and unclench her hand, a common self-soothing technique. He knew it: post traumatic stress disorder. Perhaps ‘post’ was being too charitable. “Why don’t we escort you home?” They could always take a cab there, perhaps walk back together after dropping the girl off, if the distance wasn’t too great. 

Charlotte looked to Hannibal, bemused. “That’s-- I’m more useful to him alive than dead, there’s really no need to worry--” 

“I’m afraid I have to insist, Miss Reese. Partly for my own peace of mind.” That was all the pushing Hannibal needed to do; judging by the way her shoulders dropped, she capitulated almost immediately. “Besides, this way you can join us for dinner.” 

She looked to the floor and nodded, hands still in her pockets. Everything about her stance and pose oozed tension; if she wasn’t lying, she must have been terrified. “Do you want to sit down? Usually Saucisse and I do some reading while Lucius cooks,” Will said, hoping he could dispel the discomfort, at least a little bit. 

“Sure,” she agreed, walking back to the foyer and dropping her bag there; finally shedding her coat. Without it, she looked even smaller. She sat on the couch adjacent to Will, Saucisse made her way to Will’s lap, and the evening almost felt normal. 

“Why did he burn the third corpse?” Will asked, some part of him still testing her. As much as he hated the idea of using his ‘gut,’ something about all of this felt… incomplete. 

Charlotte crossed her legs, leaning back. “I imagine it was an homage to hellfire,” she answered slowly, “He wasn’t much of a fan of my preferences. That’s why he tied most of the hair around her wrists, I think; to really hammer in the sensation of ownership.” Her lips twitched. “I guess you’d call that artistic license?” Will didn’t answer; only watched her. Tried to gauge what was truth from her, what was a lie. “Sorry. You kind of-- develop a gallow’s humor about all this.” She looked away, picking at her nails. The cuticles were dry. 

“I know.” Will’s mouth went off before he could stop himself. “I was in the FBI for awhile; you have to find a way to alleviate the pressure.” Speaking of-- who else did she have in all of this? She didn’t seem to be close to any of her classmates, was situated in a country halfway around the world from her hometown… “What does your family think of all this?” 

The picking stopped. “They don’t really know-- we’re not close.” 

Will felt his mouth twist into a frown. “Your friends?” 

Her eyes stayed on her lap, and her hands clung to the fabric of her trousers. “It’s hard to make friends when you’re half sure they’ll get killed. You might want to consider changing your locks.”

On the contrary, Will was willing to bet that a murderous intruder would be more than welcome in their house-- on their dinner table as well, he suspected, glancing at Hannibal. He was positive his prisoner was eavesdropping. Instead of answering, though, Will just leaned back, stroked Saucisse’s back. He almost welcomed the idea of an intruder himself-- after tonight, he’d need a little catharsis. He felt like a bow stretched and ready to shoot. 

There was no way he would admit to this, however. 

Hannibal joined them a few minutes later, citing that he’d prepared most of their meal this morning; dinner wouldn’t be long. He sat down next to his husband, draping one arm on the back of the couch, arm gliding across the line between Will’s shoulders. “You mentioned knowing the killer in high school,” he began, thumb dipping into the back of the couch, creeping closer to his husband’s shoulder. “That’s quite a long time to know a person.”    
  
Charlotte cocked a brow. “The murder’s new, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“There had to have been an impetus,” Hannibal smiled. 

This put her back on edge. “There’s not much to it-- I didn’t want to be under his thumb, I got accepted into  _ L’Université de Paris _ , I figured I could get a new start.”

Will could at least fill in some of the blanks. “But he followed you here.” 

“And I have no proof that he’s here, only symbolic connections to the murders-- I wasn’t even a witness to them.” She resumed the picking at her cuticles, this time drawing blood. “It’s hard to pin a guy down when all you’ve got against him is memories.” 

It didn’t take abnormal levels of empathy for Will to understand her position; he’d been there himself. His eyes slid to Hannibal, and Hannibal stared back. They both could feel the familiarity of it; Will hoped it suffocated him. “And now he’s taunting you.” 

“Yup.” The ‘ _ p _ ’ popped between her lips. She never looked up. 

Hannibal pulled another familiar phrase from an earlier life: “How does that make you feel?” 

Charlotte snorted, rubbing at a droplet of blood on her forefinger. “I’ve never hated anyone like I hate him,” she admitted, a miserable little smile splitting on her face. “I’ve dreamt about ripping him apart-- just to put an end to all this.” Her voice cracked. She went quiet for a moment, wringing her hands together. “I appreciate the offer to stay for dinner, but--” 

“We’ll get another cab-- we can go now.” She didn’t need to finish the sentence-- they’d pushed her enough. At the very least they wouldn’t keep her in this state of discomfort for much longer. Will stood up, cracking his neck. “Lucius, if you’d order it? I need to run to the restroom.” He needed to wash off his face, to have a moment alone. To think. 

‘Lucius,’ to his merit, managed to swallow his frown and walked to the kitchen to turn the oven off. Dinner would be late tonight. 

He closed the door softly, tried to ground himself with his reflection. It was all so fucking _familiar_. He wanted to turn against Hannibal, use his hands to strangle him. He wanted to see the life bleed out of his eyes. He knew that anger. He knew that desire to rip a man apart, to see him in well-deserved agony. He wanted to rip Hannibal’s throat out. Instead, he rinsed off his face. 

Charlotte had just pulled her coat back on when Hannibal, joining her, finally asked. “Why the hunting knife, then? If you’re not in any personal danger.” 

Instead of answering, Reese pulled her coat tighter around her body. She lifted her bag and held it close to her. “If it’s ever a question of me or him, I’d rather it be him.” She shrugged. “I think one day he’s going to lose his patience. And when he does, I’ll be ready.” 

Interesting. “Do you intend to kill him?” 

She kept her eyes down; to Hannibal’s delight, there was no expression on her face short of grim determination. “What would you do in my position?” 

Hannibal didn’t answer her; he just watched her struggle under the pressure of silence. Her eyes met his, as if defying him. Finally, he replied, “I’d want to put an end to the murders once and for all. I admire your courage.” 

How interesting, that a few words of kindness could elicit such a response-- Miss Reese’s eyes changed, and a tension entered her chin and cheeks as if suggesting she were near tears. She broke first, turning away. Her response was heartfelt, if curt: “Thank you.”

  
  
  


____

  
  


**The home of Bedelia Du Maurier, Maryland**

  
  


_ The night before their flight, Will dreamt of Abigail. He was in the depths of a forest, cold and alpine and distinct in a way from those he’d explored in Virginia. No, he’d only stepped foot in these woods a few times. Something curling in his guts knew he was close to the dragonfly he’d created, in the depths of the Lecter estate. It was warmer, though, the air sweet with summer. Cicadas crooned; old memories of New Orleans crept into his surroundings, just as the mosquitos buzzed around him.  _

_ There wasn’t much to do but walk. He didn’t know how long he did it, but he walked until he saw something small in the distance, the silhouette of a lump. His heart dropped. He came closer, inspected it-- saw the wet fur, the delicate little legs curled up, the delicate taper of its snout. It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe; something in him knew it was long gone already, even as its fur was wet with amniotic fluid.  _

_ A stillborn deer. It almost looked like it was sleeping. There were little wrinkle crawling up the column of its neck, loose skin to be grown into; it had the slightest white spots dotting its back, a limp little tail. So delicate. So fragile. A life ended before it could even begin.  _

_ Nearby, a twig snapped. He looked up, and saw her.  _

_ She was crying; every time he dreamt of her, it was like this. With tears rolling down her cheeks, her lips parted as if prepared to speak. He wanted to comfort her. All the times he had dreamt of this moment, all the times he had fantasized of different endings to that night, in his mind he had comforted her. He held her close, told her she’d be alright. She could cry into his shoulder as much as she wanted, and then she could go quiet, and then she could pull back and smile and feel for the first time in a long time that things would be alright. He would have patted her back. He would have told her that it was okay, it was okay to cry, that he was here now. He would protect her. Nothing would hurt her anymore, no more violence; no more of this twisted half-life she had lived, cooped up in Hannibal’s safehouse.  _

_ But he couldn’t. She was beneath him again, damp dirt clinging to her skin, clutching at her throat. Blood gushed from her with every beat of her heart, and all he could do was lean over her and watch for the umpteenth time as her life was taken from her. Tears poured down her face and into her hair, tangled as it was with the forest floor. “I don’t wanna die,” she whispered, face pale, voice weak. “I survived. I survived so much.” She had. She’d subsisted off of the life Hannibal had given her, she had fought when she was threatened, she had lied when her livelihood was at stake. The Abigail he knew clung to life so viciously that some of it remained under her fingernails. She was a fighter; she clawed her way through the day until the next came to greet her.  _

_ Until they didn’t. She bled out under him, the reactionary flinches to his tears falling onto her face growing weaker and weaker until they stopped outright. The gouts of blood turned into trickles. Her eyes lost focus; her mouth fell open. Whatever warmth there was left in her body dissipated, and she transitioned from a girl who had survived so much into a corpse that  _ hadn’t _.  _

_ He cried over her. He could let himself have this in his dreams-- he hunched over her, defeated, letting tears trail down the tip of his nose and drop onto her lifeless face. They dripped down her face, sliding into her hair. Amniotic fluid from a life that hadn’t yet begun.  _

  
  


He awoke with a start, gasping for air. A hand touched at his jaw before pushing back through his damp hair, something he distantly recognized was supposed to be a soothing gesture. He still saw her, tangled in the damp of the forest floor, eyes glassy; he squeezed his own shut, tears pushing out from behind his eyelids before he could stop them. He couldn’t breathe; his own ribcage felt tight, constrictive. He knew by smell that he’d sweat through his pajamas. Shit. 

“You’re alright.” Hannibal’s voice was low, barely audible. As cold as Will’s sweat was on his body, Hannibal’s hands were warm, and dry, and for a few moments all he could do was accept the ministrations in his hair, the rough fingertips stroking his scalp. He couldn’t stop the tears. He couldn’t stop the shakiness of his breath. 

Later, he would regret this moment of weakness. He would regret letting Hannibal take advantage of him like that, especially considering that he’d been the one to take Abigail’s life in the first place. Right then, however, he had just woken from a recurring nightmare that hadn’t plagued him in years. His subconscious had exhumed old memories meant to stay buried, and his nerves felt raw, torn from the safety of his body and played like an instrument. He rolled onto his side, facing his prisoner, and let himself be held, let his back be rubbed by the same hands that had taken Abigail’s life. 

They didn’t speak about it the next morning; Will only untied them, rolled out of bed, and dressed himself as if it hadn’t happened. One thing he’d learned over the years he’d known Hannibal was that truth wasn’t fully immutable. This could be forgotten and brushed over; one day, as far as they were concerned, it would never have happened. He could live with that. 

He ate the breakfast Hannibal cooked for him. He stepped into the cab Hannibal had opened for him. He passed the plane tickets to the gate attendant. He boarded the flight. 

He felt numb. 

___

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  


It began on the sidewalk in front of Charlotte’s apartment building, with the perfect excuse on Hannibal’s part. “I hate to intrude, but may I use your restroom?”

“I don’t, um-- I don’t really have guests over that often,” Reese spoke to the chill in the air, breaths condensing into fog as she fiddled with a loose thread on her coat. “My place is kind of a mess.” 

Propriety was such an interesting set of rules, changing depending on an array of variables. As it was, they had ensured Miss Reese’s safety by escorting her home; it would only be rude of her to say no. “We’ve seen worse,” Will answered, glancing up at his supposed ‘husband.’ It wasn’t entirely untrue-- Hannibal had managed just fine back in Wolf Trap, surrounded by a small horde of dogs. There was also the omitted desire to scope the place and make sure she didn’t have any bodies lying around, but Will suspected Charlotte could read between the lines.    
  
Not unexpectedly, she gave in. With a sigh she jerked her head forward, leading the pair up the small set of stairs and through the first few doorways-- and up seven miserable flights of stairs. It was a testament to Will and Hannibal’s healthy lifestyle that they weren’t winded from it; Charlotte looked half-ready to pass out. Panting, she pulled a hefty set of keys from her bag, walking toward the end of a narrow hallway and stopping at a door smothered in a small myriad of locks. Hannibal and Will shared a quick glance, saying nothing. 

With enough time and patience, the door opened-- and in they walked to a studio that reeked so thoroughly of paint and varnish that Hannibal paused, blinking. “Sorry, it’s kinda-- I don’t really have proper ventilation for some of this,” she admitted with an uncomfortable smile, gesturing to a set of canvases ranging in sizes from several inches to outright behemoths that overtook an entire side of the room. Against the other side, just below the windows, was a bare mattress with balled up articles of clothing. “So, uh. Welcome. Here’s, um, the kitchen,” she gestured to a miniscule kitchenette that appeared to be splattered with paint. “And, um, the bathroom’s-- it’s kinda messy, sorry. But it’s-- just past the canvases.” 

Hannibal shot his husband one long-suffering look before he stepped over the palettes, the paint tubes, and the filthy mugs of turpentine to reach the restroom. 

“This is where you spend a lot of time, I’m guessing?” Will tried, turning toward the refrigerator and pulling it open. It was surprisingly pristine, empty short of one carton of eggs. After a quick inspection, he closed the fridge and began on the freezer. 

“Yeah,” Charlotte managed back, a hand at the back of her neck, before joking, “Don’t worry, I don’t have any bodies in there. I’m not, uh-- who was that guy, the one who ate all those people? The, um--” 

It was best that Will stopped that particular train of thought then and there. “Eat out a lot?” he finally asked, noting the similar emptiness of the freezer. “There’s not much in here.” Short of one carton of eggs-- Christ. Aside from the set of paintings, it was all so desolate. He started in on the cabinets, opening them to find another set of canvases, untouched. Was there any food in her apartment? 

“Not really,” Reese replied, nodding to the refrigerator, “I eat about two or three eggs a day, one or two on the weekends-- it does the trick.” She smiled, flashing a stiff thumbs up. “Saves a lot of money, actually.” Will paused, taking a moment to look at her stick-thin legs. The slightest hollows beneath her cheekbones. The way the tendons in her hands jutted out with every slight movement. 

This woman’s inability to take care of herself was none of his business. Will knew that. She was an adult woman, and if she needed help she could take steps to get it, herself. On her own. She was a PhD student, for god’s sake. But still. “Why?” 

“I had a, um, scholarship thing that fell through, and it sort of…” She shrugged. “You know. You get by.” 

Hannibal Lecter did not relieve himself in the filthy, rank hovel that was Charlotte Reese’s restroom. He had seen public restrooms better cared for; even if the matter had been pressing, he could wait. Instead, with a handkerchief, Hannibal opened the medicine cabinet behind the (disgusting) mirror of Charlotte’s alleged ‘vanity.’ The state of the room was a disgrace to the term itself, but there he was, curious about what this apparent street urchin kept in the privacy of her bathroom. 

His curiosity did not go unrewarded; the term ‘medicine cabinet’ did not disappoint. There was a veritable pharmacy within-- several bottles of vicodin, some of adderall (and a great many variants of that particular drug)-- really, an entire collection of amphetamines and painkillers. It was a drug addict’s paradise; all Hannibal could do was turn the occasional bottle, memorizing an unfamiliar drug name. These would explain the emaciation, at least. Most of the bottles had been opened, and many of them appeared to be half-empty. So their little bird was more injured than he’d thought. 

Wiping his hands, Hannibal stepped out of the restroom and returned to the paintings, this time giving them more than a cursory glance. For all of the squalor and misery of the rest of her home, Miss Reese’s paintings were outright lovely. Hannibal leaned in, admiring the delicate glazing of a five-foot landscape piece; the clouds looked ready to float out of the painting and into the room. He would have quite liked to see them under natural light. “These are excellent.” 

“Thanks,” the young woman answered, lips twisting into a smile. “Art’s about all I’m good at.” 

So they were coming to learn. With deft feet, Charlotte picked her way through the detritus that made up her room and pulled a canvas back, revealing another piece-- a heap of bodies atop a raft, struggling to survive. “I was studying  _ Le Radeau de la Méduse  _ awhile back. I loved the composition of it; sort of a mountain of people clinging onto a hope that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s very…” her eyes were soft, fingertips grazing the painting in a move that made Hannibal want to wrench it away. Even if it were just a study, the oils from her fingers would eventually cause damage to it; this art piece didn’t deserve that rough of treatment. “It’s comforting, in a way. I’m not sure how to explain it.” 

“It was based on the event-- one hundred-fifty sailors who were abandoned on a raft,” Hannibal replied, admiring the buttery yellow ochre of the painting, its rich color evident even in the shoddy light. He turned his eyes toward Charlotte, continuing, “They embarked on an odyssey only ten of them would survive. Do you know how?” 

She didn’t look away from her work. “They cannibalized one another,” she answered, voice low. “It was all they could do to survive. Can you imagine? Those sailors had to have known each other-- they’d been on a whole expedition together.” She went quiet for a moment, eyes flicking Hannibal’s way. “You do what you can to survive. What you have to. They’re extenuating circumstances.”

“You don’t blame them? It’s a very particular brand of savagery.” Hannibal watched her as he spoke, looking for any sign of recognition, any sign of full understanding. The horror of realization, perhaps. The beginnings of fear trickling into her eyes. There was none. She kept her eyes on her painting, the smallest sliver of sadness showing on her face. 

She picked a stray paintbrush hair off of the canvas. “Sometimes I think that the line between civilization and barbarism is very thin. Away from other people, from creature comforts… resources; we’re just animals. Morality starts to break down.” She glanced Hannibal’s way, paling. “At-- at least, that’s what I think. Very, uh, you know, Rousseau’s Social Contract.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Obviously I don’t condone that sort of stuff in, like, society.” 

Hannibal smiled. “As you shouldn’t.” He looked at the painting again; surveyed it with the long-practiced eye of an art collector. “Would you consider selling it to me? It’s a great deal like the original, I must admit-- you have an excellent eye.” 

  
  


Charlotte Reese only blinked at him, shocked. She worked her mouth for a few moments, as if trying to find the right words, before settling on, “You can just take it.”

There was a moment of silence as the two registered their shared surprise. Hannibal knew what he was looking at-- a masterful study of a classic romantic artwork that likely took hundreds of hours to paint. The very idea was... almost unbelievably rude, if not to the artist then to the art itself. “This is a piece of art, it would be a shame to just take it,” Hannibal replied, inwardly calculating how much he would be willing to spend for the piece-- five thousand euros? Perhaps seven? “I’m afraid I must insist, Miss Reese.” 

“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to insist more insistently,” Charlotte replied, a touch playful. “Really, you’d be taking it off my hands.” 

Will, who had been watching this exchange while nursing a fresh headache thanks to the reek of varnish, finally joined them. “How’d you get these bigger canvases in here, anyway? Using the stairs?” There was no way she managed that herself, going by her struggle to get up the stairs altogether. 

She went rigid at the question. “Someone kinda did it for me, I guess. Anyway-- I have a critique I owe you next week Doctor Ingram, and I’d like to get a headstart on that. Is it cool if I kick you two out?” She paused. “I can, uh, figure out a way to get the painting to you sometime, as well-- would you like me to, like…” She looked at the canvas, five feet wide and four-and-a-half feet tall. Her shoulders dropped. “I can figure it out.” 

Hannibal considered the assortment of drugs in her medicine cabinet; perhaps, with the right mixture, she could. At the very least he would have enjoyed seeing that particular drug-induced struggle. 

It was Will who answered, “Uh, no, we can pick it up sometime, um. When are you free? This weekend?” They had their gala that Saturday evening, but nothing else was stopping them from picking it up. And anyway, they could make sure she didn’t keel over from malnutrition. 

Charlotte sighed. “Yeah, I kind of have a thing on Saturday, and I need Sunday to recover from it, to be honest,” she answered, hand running through her hair. “Maybe sometime next week?” 

Ultimately, they rain-checked the entire endeavor, and their visit ended in both Doctor and Mister Ingram taking grateful lungfuls of air as soon as they left the building. They made their way home, where Hannibal returned to cooking dinner, and Will sat watching him, biting the inside of his cheek, mulling over his thoughts. 

After Saucisse had been walked, and the candles had been lit, and the table had been set, Will ate what was in front of him. It took several bites for him to finally set down his silverware. “You can’t keep lying to me, Hannibal. Keeping these secrets.” The use of his name was intentional, and in that moment he had his partner’s undivided attention. 

Hannibal set his own silverware down onto his plate. He considered his words for a half-second. “I suppose I owe you an apology.” 

“You owe me more than that.” 

Hannibal smiled. “I was curious to know what she was. It’s not often we get a mystery placed in our laps.” 

Will sighed, dipping his head. “I know you were curious,” he said quietly, “She said you went through her things. You can’t just ignore a person’s boundaries.” He didn’t just ignore them-- he’d flouted them, bypassing them without a shred of care. “You can’t just insert yourself into someone’s life like that.” 

“She came when I’d invited her to dinner,” Hannibal answered with a shrug, “She had a choice.” It had only taken some light pressure from his end. 

There was no response on Will’s end; he only leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His gaze was distant, focused on some faraway target. “She’s a person, Hannibal. Not a plaything. You can’t just wind her up and watch her go.” Like he had done with Will. 

Hannibal considered this, taking a long sip of his wine. “We could help her,” he finally tried, setting down the glass. “Support her as best as we can.”    
  


If, sometime down the line, she happened to overdose via a slurry of crushed pills forced down her throat, well. Will could write it off as a senseless tragedy of normal life. These things happened. 

Picking his fork and knife back up, Will stared down at his plate. “If she wants it, maybe.” 

The next day, a fourth body was found on Rue de la Sorbonne. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is! This is only early because a good chunk of it was already written (And briefly posted as part of chapter 9, but don't worry about it). 
> 
> That being said, I'm actually having a lot of fun with Charlotte, and after a lot (and I mean a LOT) of deliberation, I want to add her in as a bit of a recurring, plot-important character for my little S4 fic. I had (and still have!) mixed feelings about this, particularly with regard to Fuller's work on the show Hannibal. In short, one of my considerations was that, hey, Fuller definitely changed aspects of Harris's work to better fit the show (and the times), so there's nothing entirely wrong about creating a new character. I think that a smidgen of creative liberty is okay, and hopefully believable within the canon of the show itself. 
> 
> ...Then again, this is fan fiction, so technically I can write whatever I want! I just personally feel really passionate about fitting with both the plot and the nature of the show, since this is my fun little S4 headcanon (with additional smut, obvs-- that wouldn't go into a show! :) ) and I want it to be believable to other readers, too. Sometimes OCs can come across as unrealistic, or unfitting to the general themes and motifs of the original work, and I can only hope that that isn't the case in this fic. 
> 
> I'm not sure if anyone else really cares about my ethical and and respect-based considerations, but here they are regardless! Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll be back to my regularly scheduled Sunday-night (ish) updates by next week! :D 
> 
> P.S. Proofreading is for the weak, and I will only do so later, surreptitiously. :)


	11. A New Variable

**Paris, France**

The body was a sculpture made in worship to carcinogens. The corpse was laid out in the middle of the road, arms out, its chest cavity hollowed to make room for the nest of cigarettes and immolated pair of lungs. The lungs themselves were charred, nearly beyond recognition, and stuck through with a series of cigarettes poking out of them with artful organization. A headpiece was made of them as well, tied into the corpse’s hair; there were enough of them for the headpiece to resemble a crown. Her fingertips were yellowed, some of them burnt; her arms were lifted up to the sky in a bowed position-- poised prior to rigor mortis, perhaps-- and plastered upon her face was a smile, lips barely parted as if ready for a kiss. 

It was a stunning piece of work, truly; Hannibal almost wished he’d made it himself, if the stench weren’t quite so foul. He had work at La Sorbonne that day-- an undergraduate course on European art history-- and had the pleasure of seeing it (and displeasure of smelling it) himself. Will’s response was a touch less enthusiastic: he went rigid at the sight of it, and stopped on the sidewalk to stare. “You may remember that we were tied together all night,” Hannibal offered, taking his darling’s hand. “Do you still suspect me?” 

Will didn’t answer; he only watched as the police maneuvered the body into a bag. 

A fourth; this time, closer to Hannibal’s place of work. Would he take a risk this great? As much as the visuals of the murder seemed to match with his aesthetic tastes, the logic didn’t make sense-- he had always been so thorough with distancing himself from the victim, from the crime scene. There were exceptions, sure, but those were only when he’d panicked-- the judge from Will’s murder trial, for example. Why would he take such a bold step? Why would he choose to endanger the life they lived? 

Maybe he wanted to force Will’s hand. Maybe the stitches on his person suit had started ripping open. Maybe… shit. Charlotte-- she said she knew the killer. That he’d been mocking her-- this had to have been timed for her to see it; she had to be nearby. If there was any validity to her statements, any at all, this murder would have been timed for her. A gift, wrapped and displayed with perfect ostentation. 

It didn’t take long to find her; she was just inside La Sorbonne, paler than he’d ever seen her. She stared off into the distance, arms crossed, face tense with outright fury. “He’s  _ moralizing _ with me,” she said in lieu of a greeting, barely glancing their way. “He knew I fell off the wagon, and he’s rubbing my face in it.” She leaned against a wall, one foot kicked up against it. 

Hannibal cocked one brow, saying nothing; instead, he only wondered if the killer had thought to stuff the body’s throat with pills-- it would have been a nice touch. Shame that they couldn’t confirm whether or not that was the case. 

“I take it the smoking is a recent development?” Will asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets and watching as the occasional person milled about. 

She paused before answering, rubbing her face. “I stopped smoking when I’d turned eighteen,” she answered with a sigh, running a nervous hand through her hair. “It’s more of a resurgence than anything else.” 

Hannibal considered this information-- she was a minor with access to cigarettes? How long had the pills factored into her life, then? Long enough to distort a growing girl’s neural pathways, certainly. He examined her frail frame in a new light, before finally opening his mouth. “I imagine that class is canceled, then. Do you have any plans for the day?” 

Not for the first time, Hannibal’s offer surprised her; he was beginning to anticipate the blank expression on her face. “Uh-- I mean, I need to get to work at three, but before that…” she trailed off, eyes focused elsewhere. “Actually, I might need to get going--”    
  
“Charlie!” The voice rang out loud in the expansive foyer, echoing off the walls. Charlotte, evidently the ‘Charlie’ in question, dipped her head and closed her eyes. Hannibal could smell her fear like a perfume, rolling off of her in acrid waves. It was only seconds later that the caller joined them, fresh-faced and smiling; Hannibal recognized him as the gentleman they’d eavesdropped on earlier. Looking at him now, he seemed almost radiant in comparison to the little bird cowering next to him. “You can be so hard to catch sometimes, d’you know that? Anyway.” He turned toward Hannibal, all confidence and swagger, which dissipated immediately. Hannibal knew that expression: instant recognition. It made sense. He was another American, seemingly more familiar with serial killers. Fear would be next, or some immediate desire to get away. It would be easy to stalk him down, get him somewhere private; break his neck before he had the opportunity to scream. 

Instead, Miss Reese’s caller broke into a wide-eyed smile. “Why hello there,” he said, slowly, bodily turning away from his original target and choosing his next. “You and ol’ Charlie here friends?” 

Charlotte, who had hunched in on herself, shot the interloper a glare; it didn’t last long. “He’s my professor.” 

“And you’re not gonna introduce us?” The man slung a casual arm around her shoulders. “C’mon, babe, don’t be  _ rude _ .” He shot Hannibal a quick conspiratorial look, the only one of them amused by his little game. 

Her eyes didn’t leave her shoes as she answered, quickly, “Doctor Ingram, Mister Ingram, Andrew Christianson. Andrew Christianson, Doctor and Mister Ingram.” Her voice was low, words running together in haste. 

“Doctor Ingram,” Andrew spoke slowly, as if savoring the sound of Hannibal’s alias in his mouth. “I have to admit, I’m a big fan of your work.” He paused for just a half-second, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You helped out with a Van Dyck painting audit, right?” 

So this was the lie they would go with. “I did,” Hannibal answered with a nod and smile, “I wasn’t aware I was known for that.” 

Andrew shrugged. “I’m more a fan of your personal artwork, actually. I just heard about the audit down the grapevine.” He paused, giving Will a look, as if trying to gather an impression of him, before turning back to Hannibal. “We’ll have to swap tips sometime. Artist to artist.” 

It was Charlotte who finally piped back up, speaking to Christianson with what Will would almost have called warm familiarity. Almost. “You’re abysmal at art, don’t embarrass yourself.” She followed this up with a twisted little smile, and Andrew returned the expression with one of dawning realization. He glanced at the pair of husbands, incredulous. 

It didn’t take an empathy disorder to read the thoughts so clearly written on his face:  _ She doesn’t know _ . His smile grew from simply bright to outright ecstatic. He managed to save himself, though, replying to her barb with a quick, “I know you just bully me ‘cause you get jealous. Don’t worry, babe, I’m all yours.” His voice had grown soft, the arm around Reese’s shoulders pulling her slight frame into him. She kept her eyes on the floor, lips pressed into a tight line. “Anyway-- I wanted to tell you about that new research my uncle’s company is working on. Didn’t you wanna hear about it?” He pressed her close, uncomfortably so, and something about the hopelessness in her expression and the eerie cheer in Andrew’s own made Will put his foot down. 

“We have lunch plans, actually,” he cut in. Well, nothing was set in stone just yet, but judging by his interaction so far with Hannibal, this new variable was comfortable enough with murder to sweep it under the rug in casual conversation. If this wasn’t the Pont des Arts killer, well, he was dangerous regardless. 

This didn’t prove much of a deterrence: Andrew’s smile only grew more crooked, and he turned back to the woman he held in a gentle vise. “Of course, lunch plans-- it’s just, I was looking for you, and I don’t have that much time.” Will watched his eyes slide Charlotte’s way, brimming with smug confidence; saw the way her jaw tensed when she finally looked up and stared back, the way her eyes widened in a cross between fury and fear. “And, hey, I know that you wanted to hear about that research, and you know I can be hard to catch. Isn’t that right?” He threw a smile and a wink toward Hannibal and Will, before doubling back on his main target, staring her down until she capitulated. 

Charlotte turned away first. “Can we rain check lunch?” 

_ No, I’d prefer not to _ , Will almost said, even as he took in the pleading expression in her eyes. “Yeah, of course-- maybe after your next seminar?” 

She nodded, and Andrew released his grip on her shoulders, only to grab at her wrist. “I’m gonna have to steal this from you for a little while, but don’t you worry-- I wanna talk to you two some more.  _ Ciao! _ ” He and Charlotte walked off, but not without him turning back toward them, using his forefinger to tap twice at the side of his nose. A tacit promise: he’d keep their secret. 

  
  


____

  
  


**Baltimore, Maryland**

  
  


Sitting at a corner booth in one of the cozier restaurants in downtown Baltimore, Jack glanced at his watch. They were late. This wasn’t much of a surprise-- knowing Brian and Jimmy, they’d probably managed to stumble into an ongoing mugging. But still, he waited, tugging at his now-suffocating tie, wondering how he’d managed to wear it day in and day out back at the Bureau. Funny-- he hadn’t thought he’d changed in his time away, but his first time out in his old suit felt strange. Foreign to him. 

Price and Zeller waved at Jack from the outer end of the restaurant, dressed in button downs and slacks-- they probably still reeked like death. Jack wondered if he’d be able to smell it on them; he’d gone nose blind back at the Bureau, but now anything was possible. 

He smelled it as soon as they got to the booth, Jimmy giving him a quick clap on the back. “Hey, old man! How are you? It’s been too long.”    
  
Jack was quick on the reply: “Don’t call me that.” Yes, he’d retired, but he hadn’t gone soft. He hoped. He received the right response (shock, mild fear, a surreptitious glance between the two) before he finally relaxed his shoulders and managed a smile. “But… It’s good to see you guys too. What’s new?” 

Their combined relief was visible; Zeller slid into the other seat at the booth, followed by Price, and they both got comfortable. “Did I tell you that Rob and I finally got approved for adoption?” Brian Zeller, to whom this could not be new news, only covered his face with his hand. “We’re finally getting one of those suckers. Do you know how long we’ve been on a wait list?” 

“Five years,” Brian answered for him, clearly bored to death with the whole subject. 

“Almost six,” Jimmy replied with a tip of his head toward Jack, his only captive audience-- “Do you have any idea how many hoops we had to jump through? You would be shocked--  _ shocked _ \-- by the adoption process these days.” Zeller picked up a napkin and began twisting it, lips pursed. Jack was half sure that Brian could have recited this particular speech word-for-word, but stayed quiet nonetheless. “We’re not even trying to ship one in from anywhere! Just a neighborhood kid abandoned by his parents, and the  _ hoops  _ you have to go through. Christ.” 

There was a half-second pause, letting Jack add in, “Maybe the way you talk about them might have factored into the wait time?” 

Jimmy shot him a look. “Stop quoting our social worker.” There was a beat of silence before all three of them burst into laughter. After a minute or two of this, Price calmed down enough to say, “I was nicer about it until about a year ago-- we almost adopted this cutie from up in Maine, but another family got her first.” He paused, glancing down at his hands. “ _ Anyway _ . Brian.” Jimmy turned toward his fellow diner with an expectant look. “Do you have any news to share?” 

There was a pause for their waiter, to refill their waters and pass them their menus. As soon as he turned away, Jimmy Price returned to staring Zeller down with a patient little smile. 

Brian Zeller was a generally unflappable man: he could crack jokes at crime scenes, partly because keeping his cool was a prerequisite of his line of work. This made his blatant embarrassment all more surprising to Jack, whose eyebrows crept up his forehead the more Zeller hemmed, hawed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh. Well. I’m kind of-- getting married?” 

“That’s wonderful,” Jack answered with a smile, legitimate and genuine. Then, of course, the questions came in-- “How come I haven’t heard about her before?” It had only been two years since he’d retired; how quickly was this relationship going? 

Zeller, whose blush crept up his throat and onto his cheeks, continued, “We were kinda casual about things for a few years. She’d have to go to New York all the time, I had-- have-- work here, it was a little-- we were good friends.” 

Jimmy, already leaning on his hand, added a helpful, “With  _ benefits _ .” He shot a grin Jack’s way, nudging Zeller, “Someone was playing the field!” 

“Dude, shut up.” Brian’s voice was soft, and judging by his hunched posture and half-hearted attempts to cover his face he’d reached the end of his capacity to handle embarrassment. 

Jimmy was kind enough to relent. “They’re gonna have a summer wedding, and if he tries to rope me into planning it again I’ll have to call HR. But yeah! All good things.” He nodded for a moment, before asking, “How about you?” 

“I’ve been good,” Jack answered, and he took a private pleasure in knowing that he was being honest. “I was a bit bored awhile--” he still had most of his shitty clay pots from his pottery phase, “But, ah. You know. Doing some writing, some reflecting. Things have been good. Peaceful.” He played golf, he ran regularly; he even taught a self-defense class about a year ago. If he was being honest with himself, he was probably the happiest he’d been since Bella had passed on. “I’m finding out that I’m not a great writer.” He lifted his glass to his lips and took a quiet drink of his water. 

Jimmy cracked a smile. “If you ever want an editor, I know Rob loves it-- he’s ruthless. He’d tear you to shreds.” 

Jack couldn’t help his laughter. “That’s quite the vote of confidence.” Jimmy only gave Jack a pompous little shrug in return. “Speaking of,” he began, intertwining his fingers together and leaning forward, “Molly Graham called me recently.” 

The jovial atmosphere of the group came to an abrupt end. Zeller was the first to speak. “Yeah? She doing okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s doing well-- really well, actually.” Jack paused, considering his next words. “She called about an anonymous donation she’d been receiving. About twenty-five hundred dollars a month.” He looked up, analyzing the expressions of the men before him: they both had leaned forward, brows knitted together in a mixture of interest and concern. “I reached out to the Vergers about it, figuring--” he shrugged, “They might have an idea of who it was, or might have been supporting her somehow.” 

“Jack, what do you think this is about?” Price asked, eyes flickering toward Zeller.

Zeller asked next, glancing between both of his dining mates. “You don’t think it’s…” 

“The Vergers don’t know anything about it,” Jack nodded. “I don’t know who’s been sending her this money. But knowing her connection to Will Graham--” Zeller looked down as soon as the name was spoken, still wracked with shame. “And knowing Will Graham’s connection to…” He didn’t speak his name, as if verbalizing it would make him more real, more alive. Hannibal Lecter was a corpse feeding fish and algae at the bottom of the ocean-- at least, that was what Jack hoped. It was what a man like him deserved. “It would help me sleep better at night if I knew where this money was coming from.” He took a breath, before adding, “It would help Molly ask her benefactor to kindly stop sending her unwanted donations.” 

Understanding trickled into their eyes, and the two agents shared a look. Price spoke first. “There was no way he could have survived that fall; not with the amount of blood he’d lost against Will and Dolarhyde. And, god, the  _ currents _ \--” 

“There was no body.” There were no bodies, plural, but something in Jack’s gut knew that Will’s last moments on earth had been spent trying to take the doctor down. He sighed, before changing his tactic. “I know it’s not rational, what I’m asking. But I want to be sure.” 

Zeller licked his lips, before finally looking Jack square in the eye. “Look. I know that this is hard for you. I know it feels unfinished, but-- you’re asking us to risk our jobs for a hunch you have.” He paused, staring down at the gleaming wood of the table. “What you’re asking for is… you did good work at the BAU. But I can’t justify breaking the law over a hunch.” 

Jack had gone in expecting something like this. Instead of trying to push, then, he only replied, “I understand.” Regardless, he slipped a folded piece of paper out of his blazer’s pocket, before sliding it over the table. “I’m not asking you two to do anything. Just-- think about it.” 

This had to have been the last straw for Brian Zeller, because he only shook his head and asked to be excused, before finally squeezing past Jimmy and leaving the restaurant outright. That was one down. Jack turned to Jimmy, paper still on the table. 

“He’s my ride,” Jimmy managed, standing up, “And I’m not making any promises by doing this. I’m just taking a piece of paper.” 

“Just a simple piece of paper,” Jack agreed, relief already flooding through him. He let Jimmy pick it up, stuff it into his coat pocket, and leave. He was left alone, and more than likely with a little less dignity than he’d had when he walked into the place. 

He ate his dinner in silence. 

  
  


____

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  


As the weather grew colder, Hannibal exhumed one of his favorite traditions: namely, caring for Will’s aching shoulder. As soon as the weather dropped below, oh, ten degrees celsius, he would begin rolling his shoulders. Once it dropped a degree or two more, Hannibal would notice him rubbing at it; wincing when he moved his arm too quickly. 

At this stage of the process, all he had to do was offer his services over dinner and wine; he’d selected a sufficiently strong choice to go with their veal, and while his offers to top Will’s glass off were largely declined, the meal and long day rendered Will just tired enough to be malleable. 

They had largely left the subject of Andrew Christianson alone throughout the day, short of a few worried looks from Will shot in Hannibal’s direction. As little as he knew of the man, he didn’t feel any particular need to act: as it was, he didn’t seem interested in reaching out to the police, and he didn’t appear to be inclined to share their secret. 

He was also most likely the Pont des Arts killer, and Hannibal would be the last man to get in the way of an artist’s vision. No, he’d kept Will from tracking Andrew down; he’d whispered warm platitudes in his ear, soothed him like a scared animal until he’d agreed to return home for the day, let Hannibal get a head start on dinner. Upon returning home, Will paced throughout the house, expecting  _ la gendarmerie  _ to kick the door in and arrest them at any minute. 

It took five hours for him to finally settle, but settle he did, nervous and exhausted from the various ploys and pitfalls of his own mind. This only made Hannibal’s job easier. 

He set the table, placed their cutlery in their usual positions; provided soup, bread, the main course; poured the wine; lit the candles. It was his own personal ritual, borne from the simple desire to dine with the right atmosphere. Every so often, he’d watch Will admire his table setting, his candles-- watch him fidget at the romantic connotations of the candle light even as he supped on pomegranate seeds and raspberries. One day Hannibal would feed them to him by hand; his wild thing would at least bear the veneer of domestication. 

But those were plans for another day. Today, he watched Will favor his right arm even as he lifted his fork to his lips, noted the tension around his mouth and eyes in every movement. It was time. “It’s getting cold again,” Hannibal began, eyes on his fellow diner. “How’s your shoulder feeling?”    
  
This again. Every winter for the last two years, they had this game they would play-- Hannibal would offer his medical assistance, and see how far he could push that assistance into outright foreplay. 

...But it did help. Besides, Will wouldn’t let him push too far into that territory. As long as he kept his composure, kept things professional, he could accept some medical assistance-- Hannibal had been in charge of his physical therapy. It would be fine. Will only quirked a brow, taking another sip of his wine. Once done, he answered, “Not great. I hate to ask, but--” 

“You don’t even have to ask. I was ready to offer.” 

Jesus. Hannibal had never been particularly private about his feelings, but hearing him being this forward was-- he ground his teeth together, eyes on the table. “Fair enough. I appreciate it.” If he felt a flush working its way up his throat, well, at least Hannibal was polite enough not to mention it. 

Hannibal, fork poised at his mouth to take a bite of veal, only smiled. “Of course.” 

He was quick with clean-up, and quicker to provide a small assortment of fruits for Will to dine on at his leisure while receiving a perfectly professional massage. Hannibal took no small amount of pride in his work; ideally, he would have had Will stripped out of his shirt and with a hot towel on his shoulder prior to the actual treatment, but he would make do with what was given to him. Fall had only just begun in earnest. 

As soon as he was sat on the couch, grapes and raspberries and pomegranates on hand, Hannibal stepped behind him, hands at the ready. “You spoil me, Doctor Ingram,” Will uttered, voice soft, before picking a grape from its bunch and popping it into his mouth. The only sound aside from his chewing was the crackling of the fire in the grate. 

“It’s a personal favorite pastime,” he acknowledged with a small nod, hands brushing against the expanse of his partner’s upper back. “How does this feel?” 

Will snorted. “You’ve got some strange hobbies. It doesn’t hurt yet.” 

“‘Strange’ is a subjective term. What may be strange to you could be perfectly normal in many other circumstances. Some see religious worship in indigenous cultures as ‘strange,’ when in fact they’re celebrating a tradition going back to time immemorial.” As he spoke, he grasped the sides of Will’s shoulders in his hands, rubbing carefully with his thumbs. It was best to start gently. 

He saw Will’s head tilt to the side, as if acknowledging his point. “Those celebrations always served a purpose-- hoping for good harvest, personal improvement, wealth. What purpose does it serve to wait on me hand and foot?” As if to punctuate the end of his sentence, he slipped a raspberry between his lips. 

Hannibal only smiled. “What purpose did eating the ortolan serve?” They both knew the answer-- debauched pleasure, done for the sake of enjoyment; only made better by knowing it was wrong. He moved his hands upward, massaging the trapezius and levator scapulae; his thumbs rubbed small circles around the delicate vertebrae of his neck. Not for the first time, he was tempted to take his husband’s head in his hands, to hold again that scintillating mind in his palms. 

After considering his words for some moments, Will parried, “Pleasure of the cruelest kind. A meal made better through schadenfreude?” Hannibal could feel his low laugh rumble against his hands. “Not much pain to take pleasure in, here.” He ate another grape. 

“Would you prefer pain?” Hannibal asked, skirting Will’s response and landing them closer than ever to the heart of the issue. It was a slow game, but then again he enjoyed the mental exercise. 

Another pause on his partner’s end; Hannibal felt the tension build in Will’s shoulders. “Pretty sure the point of physical therapy is to avoid pain in the long run.”    
  
“Very true,” Hannibal acquiesced, continuing his ministrations at the very top of Will’s shoulders, where they met the neck. “Though some pain is medically necessary, of course.” 

“As long as you warn me beforehand.” 

And that was permission, wasn’t it? Given freely, under no duress. “May I?” Hannibal asked, hands already slipping closer to the old wound in anticipation of a ‘yes.’ 

Will, who had been reaching for another fruit, dropped his hand against the arm of the couch. “Sure--” and so Hannibal applied pressure, and heard for the first time in nearly a year the symphony of his husband’s rushed breath; the tension that reverberated through his entire body, as his ministrations grew muscle-deep. It wasn’t entirely unlike their time together in Florence, if only he could have fed his insensate darling soup by hand. 

“In some ways,” Hannibal began, fingertips pressing into the obscenely raised skin of Will’s scars, “Pain and pleasure is a dichotomy paralleling that of good and evil.” He paused, redoubling his manual efforts, and listened carefully as Will gave a low hiss. “Just as some ends justify their means, and morality can swim, pain and pleasure can mix together.” His fingers pressed hard into the scar tissue. “Have you ever felt agony and bliss collapse into one another?” 

As if the touch triggered some tactile memory, Will considered Dolarhyde; the satisfaction of taking him down, of tearing the life from him even as he struggled against the overwhelming ache in his cheek and shoulder. He remembered the feeling of holding Hannibal close; remembered the sense of inevitability, that no matter the circumstances they would have ended up on that cliff edge, covered in blood, half-feral from adrenaline. He crossed his legs, ignoring the stirring in his stomach. “Have you?” 

There was no need to hesitate; Hannibal had known his answer for years. “I suspect that every moment of knowing you has been something akin to that very collapse.” His hands grew gentle again, before his fingers returned to Will’s scar tissue, more exploratory than insistent. “Have you ever heard of impasto?” 

The worst apparently over, Will took another grape and placed it into his mouth; it felt cooler, now, as if he’d just run a mile. Once he’d swallowed, he answered, “No; never.” What new pretension was coming his way? 

“It’s mostly restricted to modern painting,” Hannibal supplied, hands dipping to rub at shoulder blades, “a technique where paint is applied thickly; usually the colors are mixed upon the canvas. The texture of the paint becomes an art form in and of itself. It catches the light differently.” Another brush at the bullet wound in Will’s shoulder. “I’ve come to think of scars in this light.” 

Will couldn’t help the amusement lifting the corners of his lips. “Scarification as an art form?” 

“A physical reminder of a body’s trauma. Scars tell a story.” Delicately, Hannibal lifted his hand from Will’s shoulder and touched at his cheek, his forehead. “A historical textbook of pain, unadulterated by opinion or subjectivity.” There was no denying a scar; no denying the existence of it, or the circumstances that had created it. “It’s a truth written into the skin. Immutable.” Distantly, Hannibal considered his own scars, many of them created in tandem with the man before him. Theirs was a story written in blood. 

Will’s blush had returned to the back of his neck now, less mottled and more overwhelmingly red. “Unless you cover it up.” 

“Sounds painful.” And there they were, back where they had begun. 

“Necessary, in some circumstances.” 

“You sound awfully curious about that dichotomy, Mister Ingram,” Hannibal mentioned, his hands pressing down on his shoulders, a now long-familiar method used to improve on their strength. He tilted forward while doing so, and for a second was left speechless, blinking at the sight his husband had tried so earnestly to hide from him: barely visible between his crossed legs was a clothed erection. “I’d be happy to introduce you to their intermingling.” 

That must have been the final straw-- Will shot up from the chair, and without so much as a ‘good-bye,’ walked to his largely unused room and slammed the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, here it is!! I have a few more characters up my sleeve, and intend to flesh them out in the next chapter or two; I hope you like Andrew! He's been a real pleasure to develop, and I hope he comes across as both sinister and, well, fun! :D 
> 
> Also, I love Price and Zeller, and I'm so excited to give them some more time in the sun!! It's what they deserve tbh
> 
> Thank you as always for reading, and I'm so excited to hear what you think about this new chapter!


	12. Gala, Part 1

**Paris, France**

  
  


“Would you like help putting it on?” Hannibal asked, watching Will eye the tuxedo set. 

He needed help, and he knew it. The whole ensemble looked like disassembled IKEA furniture-- why were there small metal things? Why was there a square of silk? Why was there another slip of fabric with pleats? None of this made sense. But he’d be damned if he’d let Hannibal dress him up like a toddler headed to a wedding, so instead Will just pulled out his phone and Googled ‘how to put on a tux.’ “I’ll be fine.” 

Grabbing the most cumbersome box of clothing he’d seen in his life, Will made his way to their shared room and stripped out of his clothes. This would be fine. He pulled out his phone, tapped the first link that showed up, and was immediately greeted with an _eight minute video_ on how to dress himself. Unbelievable. The first shot was of a naked man staring through a mirror and into the camera, smilingly explaining that the first step was hygiene, and the second step was… putting on underwear. Okay. So he was being patronized by a nude guy on the internet. This was how the night was shaping up. 

It would be twenty minutes until he walked out of the room, studs in their stud-holes (what was the point of vestigial buttons?), cufflinks on, cummerbund miserably adorned-- all that was left was the bowtie, which simply refused to tie. He found another video, followed the instructions to the letter, and ended up with a bowtie, sure, but a sad and deflated one. He sighed again, suspecting it wouldn’t be the last. 

Undoing the tie and walking out of their room, he shoved his hands in his pockets and glowered at his alleged ‘husband.’ “You can help me with the bowtie.” 

Hannibal, dressed to perfection and hair coiffed, pursed his lips in what Will knew to be pure, unadulterated amusement at his expense. “Can I?” 

“We can also not go.” That was the preferred alternative, anyway. 

This got Hannibal moving. He walked over and lifted his arms to Will’s collar, fingertips brushing at his throat. If Will happened to swallow excess saliva, neither of them mentioned it. “Not shaving?” 

Yes, his signature scruff remained. That was where he drew the line. “It’s-- uncomfortable,” Will admitted, “Part of the autism is hypersensitivity, and shaving is…” he cringed, remembering the last time he’d tried to fully get rid of his scruff-- it didn’t end well. “It’s why I prefer just trimming it.” 

So Hannibal had suspected. Watching his husband explain it to him, however, eyes focused on the floor, was charming, in a way. It was a hidden weakness that stayed between the two of them. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He paused, silently admiring the fit of Will’s tuxedo, the way the clean lines of it accentuated his figure. He pulled at the bowtie, ensuring both sides were even. “You look handsome.”  
  
“Don’t.” 

“There’s a moratorium on compliments among friends?” It was the first Hannibal had heard of it. 

“I’m implementing a _moratorium_ on inappropriate behavior,” Will answered, eyes locking with Hannibal’s own for half a second. He looked down again, jaw tensed.

“‘Inappropriate’,” Hannibal echoed back, savoring the word on his tongue. “Is that the term you prefer for medical assistance?” It had only been a few days since their encounter in that very room; Will had returned to sleeping in his room without so much as a word. They left the events of that night unspoken, to be buried with time and decay like Will’s other moments of weakness. 

That didn’t mean that Hannibal couldn’t bear those moments in mind, however. If that night had earned itself a place in his mind palace, well, there was no need for Will to know. 

“I’m half sure ‘medical assistance’ is just a euphemism for something else altogether,” Will replied, stepping back and rubbing at his neck; the whole ensemble was stuffy. He walked about the room, excess agitation making him feel… fidgety. He’d never done well with fancy clothes; button-downs and blazers were about as nice as he went, and every tie he’d ever worn just felt like a noose. The one wrapped around his throat was no different. He paused, taking a moment to look at their most recent addition to the apartment-- Charlotte’s painting, courtesy of the artist, brought down from her apartment by hired movers. He didn’t have much of an opinion for or against it, for the most part-- as far as he was concerned, it was a pile of bodies stacked in a misshapen little pyramid, surrounded by gray ocean. Hannibal had gone on and on about the composition of it, the philosophy and cultural mores behind it, but all Will had really internalized was the misery of it. 

A raft of hopeful mariners sailing toward a grisly end. He looked more closely at it-- at the cadaver on the bottom-right of the painting, head obscured by white cloth, legs splayed open, his nudity covered by fabric. 

It was almost dizzying, how quickly Hannibal would get something once he started to want it-- the apartment, most of the furniture inhabiting it, the painting. The clothes he wore. Will turned around, tugging at his tie-- did it really have to be this tight? 

“Shall we?” Hannibal was just behind him, fingers delicately plucking a touch of dog fur from his elbow. 

Ugh-- it was about time to go, wasn’t it? As bad as it was hanging around the apartment in this outfit, he knew the gala would be worse. Three hours; he’d just need to stay for three hours. Long enough for Hannibal to make his rounds with the local elite, admire-- whatever it was that was apparently being ‘unveiled.’ Three hours, followed by a week back in Rouen. 

He could live with that. 

The locale didn’t disappoint-- _la Musée de Cluny_ looked like something out of a Gothic fairytale. The flourishes and detailing on the roofs of the building were outright intimidating in the evening light. Some part of him couldn’t help but think of Castle Dracula; he glanced Hannibal’s way. At least one of them fit in. As they neared the grounds of the museum, Will felt a hand snake its way to the small of his back. 

Two hours and fifty-nine minutes. Then they could go home, back to Saucisse, back to the relative safety of his room. Already, there were too many people-- they were congregated near a small garden, sipping on champagne. Most of the women were dressed in flowing gowns, the men in tuxes-- he doubted he’d enjoy conversation with a single person here. They continued into the building, and all of the grandeur of the earlier architecture fell away, revealing arched stone rooms so tall and old that Will couldn’t help but wonder just how it was built-- the stones that made up the walls were just barely uneven, enough so to relay its age. Underneath all that pompous decor were ruins-- probably dating back to the Roman era. 

“It’s not unlike stepping into another time, is it?” Hannibal muttered to him, less focused on the architecture than on his partner’s face. 

Will, who had been looking toward the ceiling since the moment they had come to a stop, replied, “Might as well have stepped through a wardrobe.” He felt his hand in Hannibal’s more than he saw his companion take it, turning toward him just in time to see lips pressed against his knuckles. Immediately, he remembered the gentle care Hannibal had taken years ago, wrapping white gauze around them after he’d bloodied them with Randall Tier. 

Of course he’d up the ante tonight. He was the first to turn away, even as he felt Hannibal’s eyes on him. The moment Hannibal released his hand, Will walked further into the museum, eyes on the walls, the tapestries, the statues-- anything but the man following behind him. He didn’t need to look back to know the satisfied smile on Hannibal’s face.

He made his way into a small gallery of stained glass; the walls themselves were black, with the windows backlit to emphasize the artwork-- they were mostly religious images, every shape bordered in heavy black to delineate the bright colors of glass. The images themselves were less founded in realism and more dictated by stylistic choice; he suspected that the work was from the Middle Ages. He leaned in to admire one in particular: a perfectly circular piece of glass depicting a scared woman sat on a horse, right behind what had to be the Devil. His skin was a fiery crimson red, the brightest in the entire piece, and he was sat nearly at the center of the glass, pointing a stick rightward-- leading the pack. “ _Le Diable et Une Femme_ ,” Hannibal supplied, appearing behind his husband with two flutes of champagne in hand. “There’s not a great deal of esteem for Medieval art; it tends to be seen as rudimentary in comparison with its Roman predecessors, its Renaissance descendents. Do you know why?” 

Will took the flute in hand and considered, staring at the Devil’s grotesque face; the large eyes, the scrunched brow, the stuck-out tongue. “Aside from lack of literacy and general backslide in education?” He turned, just a touch, and peered over at his ‘date.’ 

Hannibal only smiled, hand returning to its apparent home on the small of Will’s back-- checking the gallery, Will only saw three other guests admiring the windows. Too many to risk making a scene-- slick bastard. “That’s one perspective; literacy was low in part because of the decline of the Roman papyrus paper trade.” He paused, taking a slow sip of his champagne. Once done, he continued, “Religious worship was at its peak, in some ways-- all art was made in allegiance to God. Realism provides no room for perfection; at least something has to be left to the imagination.” He pointed at the oval shape of the woman’s face. “Once simplified, idealization is mere steps away-- as is the opposite.” 

“Letting the mind flesh it out into something concrete. With no barriers between science and fiction,” Will watched the light filter through the Devil and his uneven eyes, “The world must’ve been a scary place.” He knew what that was like-- Will remembered the night he’d woken up on a road miles away from his home, lost in more ways than one. Remembered the feeling of his body sloshing into nothing but water on his sweat-soaked bed. He looked again at the woman riding behind him on his horse; the quiet terror in her expression. The way her mouth stayed clamped shut-- too scared to scream. He glanced Hannibal’s way again, voice soft when he said, “What do you think happened to her, afterward?” Following the Devil wherever he went, just next to him on horseback. “Suffering an eternity of damnation?” 

“Or lavishing in a hedonistic paradise, perhaps.” The hand on Will’s back slid its way around him, until Hannibal outright held Will at his side. The image of them would have almost looked romantic, from afar. “What do you think?”

Will didn’t answer; he only extricated himself from his partner’s arms and made his way forward, out into a bustling autumnal courtyard, complete with trees and gardens. Checking behind him, he saw Hannibal-- and in front of both of them stood Andrew Christianson, wine glass in hand, grin on his face, chatting with a small group of fellow partygoers. 

  
  


____

  
  


**Rouen, France**

  
  


Will Graham fit beautifully amongst the honey-colored wood floors and white walls of Hannibal’s cottage. As he lifted dust sheets off of unused furniture, his every move was graceful; the way he picked through the rooms of the house denoted such politeness, such respect-- he acted as if he were a guest in his own home. As they unpacked their meager belongings, Hannibal wondered how long it would take Will to grow fully comfortable in his new surroundings; when he’d start to shed that sweet veneer of consideration. 

It remained as the sun set, as they ate their first meal in the house, as they changed out of their clothes and readied themselves for bed; even as Will tied them together, he was gentle, more so than he’d been back in at the home of Doctor Du Maurier. There was a shyness to him-- not unlike a blushing bride on her wedding night. “You’ve been quiet.” 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Will replied, leaning back onto their new bed, staring up at the ceiling with that same faraway expression he’d had when he’d only first considered Hannibal’s offer. He glanced in Hannibal’s direction, uttering a quiet, “We’re here.” 

“So we are.” Hannibal rolled to his side, surveying Will’s contemplation. He almost looked pained. “You’ve given us both freedom, Will. Nothing is impossible for us; not now.” 

There was a flash of recognition in Will’s eyes, and he smiled as he answered, “It’d take divine intervention to bring us down.” They’d fulfilled Hannibal’s fantasy, all those years ago-- Achilles and Patroclus, two warriors snatched from their tragedy and placed into the modern world. A place Hannibal had carved out for them. The space felt too big, as if there were too much for just the two of them. For just a few moments, he allowed himself to wonder: what if? 

What if they’d gone that night, together? What if they’d killed Jack and run off into the night, a family of three? A case of _Folie á famille_ \-- madness shared between a family, a perfect trilateral balance. Abigail would have been able to consider colleges; Hannibal and Will would have been able to live like this, together. There would have been no weight in the silence between them, only comfort. What would she have liked? What would she have considered when she weighed her options? Maybe she’d take a year off, enjoy the new life they’d built together. She might have gone fly fishing with Will-- might have prepared their catch with Hannibal, broiling it in the oven. Pan-frying fish. With Hannibal leading the effort, they’d probably end up with something wholly unrecognizable and grotesquely flamboyant. Maybe they’d visit museums together. Maybe they’d have made a life together, fashioned out of the three that they’d left behind. 

She could have been happy. Will knew that with unflinching certainty. She could have explored Florence, or Rouen, or anywhere they liked; she could have done anything. The future could have been so _bright_. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Hannibal’s voice pulled him from that particular thought spiral-- Will closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Parallel universes,” he answered, eyes toward the ceiling, “How things could have been.” A kinder place; less death, less misery. Just them, figuring out how to build their lives together. They would have been, oh, four years into their new life by now; Abigail would have been nearing twenty. Starting a career, maybe; studying something she loved. Will and Hannibal would have been somewhere close, there for her if she ever needed them. A place she could always come back to. 

He felt a hand on his forehead, stroking at the scar Hannibal had cut into him, not so long ago. “It sounds like an exercise in futility.” 

Will snorted. “Feels like one, too.” 

“Then why indulge in it?” It was a legitimate question-- they had just entered a new life. This was a time of celebration, at least in Hannibal’s eyes. Everything they could have wanted was just before them. But Will had always been touched by others’ emotions so easily-- it was possible he was still mourning the life he’d left behind. 

There was a moment of silence, before Will finally answered, “It feels like a second chance; all of this. You and me, running away, starting something new together.” He went quiet, letting the darkness of the room engulf him for a moment. “She could have had this, too.” 

“She could have.” 

“But you took that from her.” 

Hannibal pursed his lips, watching as anger cascaded through Will in waves. The tension began in his jaw and continued through the rest of his body-- it was spellbinding. “What did you imagine? In your parallel universe.” 

Will let the silence stretch out between them, eyes soft. It was so easy to fantasize about-- “I like to think she’d have taken a year off. Just-- spending time with us. Learning to enjoy life again.” 

“A family unit.” 

“Something like that.” It could have been just that, couldn’t it? He would have gone along with it. Maybe he would’ve liked it, in some way. Two fathers, taking care of their daughter. “Probably would’ve gotten a dog, too.” 

Will heard rustling as Hannibal shifted toward him, invested in this little fantasy. “She would have liked the winters here-- reasonably cold, occasionally snowy. We could have stayed in a cabin in the countryside.” 

The hand returned to Will’s forehead, fingertips just brushing against the scar. “She could’ve gone sledding. Had some snowball fights.” He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought; any kind of competition with Hannibal Lecter was bound to end in either tears or bloodshed. 

“We could warm up by a fire,” Hannibal continued, fingers lowering to the scar on Will’s cheek; “Enjoy a dinner tinged with exhaustion.” 

It was better to share in this fantasy, Will supposed; easier to sink into the comfort of it without being drowned by guilt. His voice was barely audible when he said, “It would’ve been so easy.” A soft drowsiness settled over him; the hand brushing against his cheek didn’t help. 

“A simple life spent with those we love-- sounds idyllic.” A thumb made its way to the edge of Will’s lips; “What shape do you imagine our relationship would take? In that other life.” 

This was a loaded question; they both knew that. “I’m not sure-- I imagine it’s not too different from what it is now.” With less hurt between them, certainly. Fewer scars. Will’s mouth twitched into a smile against his alleged ‘husband’s’ thumb. “I’d probably be as awful a gourmand as you by now, eating your cooking.” 

Hannibal’s lips curled into a smile; his hand drifted down to Will’s chest, remaining there. “Perhaps I’d be a decent fisherman by now.” 

Will kept his eyes on the ceiling, unable to hide his amusement. “You’re not very good at it yet,” With his free hand, he tapped the one resting on his chest, eyes sliding Hannibal’s way. “You could improve on your subtlety.”

The hand slid away, and Will didn’t have to look at him to know that Hannibal was smiling. “I’ve more experience with hunting,” he admitted, “There’s a sublime satisfaction in watching prey fall into the trap I’ve set.” 

“I’ll have to be careful, then.” This new life of theirs wouldn’t be exempt from their brand of mind games; they only had more time at their disposal. With some shame, Will had to admit-- he was curious to see who would win. 

  
  


____

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  


They managed to avoid Christianson’s attention, in part by sticking to the fringes of social groups-- still, it was only a matter of time until Hannibal ran into an apparent colleague, or a friend from La Sorbonne. At every one of these interactions, he wormed his arm around Will’s waist, introducing him as _mon cher mari_ \-- his ‘dear husband.’ Each time, Hannibal’s eyes would flick Will’s way for just a moment, and Will would look back with a private expression of forbearance. One week in Rouen; only two hours and forty-five minutes away. He could live with this, if only for a little longer. He smiled when Hannibal’s colleagues glanced his way, and he even nodded along with whatever pretentious conversation they were having-- most of the vocabulary was foreign to him, and he only caught words such as ‘painting,’ ‘reveal,’ and ‘refurbish.’ The gala was hosted in part to unveil some painting, but that was about all Will cared to know. 

Every so often he’d hit a lull in conversation, letting his mind and eyes wander about the area; he’d occasionally see Christianson, usually at the very center of a large group of people; but this time he noticed Charlotte, clad in a too-big black dress, making conversation with two gentlemen who looked about as comfortable in white tie as Will was. Straining, he could just barely make out what one of the men was saying: “And to top it off? This guy used _polyurethane_ as a varnish.” There were a few horrified gasps from both Charlotte and the other man, and she must have chimed in, because the moment she’d opened her mouth her acquaintances burst into laughter. Will had the inkling she was among fellow conservationists-- she gave a shy little smile, one he’d seen once or twice before. It almost looked like she was having fun. 

She deserved to have a fun night out like this. Will turned back to Hannibal’s acquaintances with a renewed sense of determination-- hell, maybe he’d learn something tonight. 

An hour later, Will knew that La Musée de Cluny was unveiling a recently refurbished painting by Enguerrand Quarton, who was apparently a massively successful Medieval artist in the early 1400s; his understanding of anatomy almost rivaled those of his Renaissance peers, which was important for some reason, and his delicate gold leaf detailing left his contemporary viewers in awe. Cool. He also knew, per Hannibal, that the conservation had been considered “the subject of some controversy,” which in academic circles apparently meant that there would be medieval art specialists eyeing the piece like a hawk as soon as it was unveiled, looking for any potential flaws in the conservation. It all sounded like vaguely political bullshit, but tonight Will was just arm candy who could watch the drama unfold-- preferably from a wall somewhere, because holy hell, no one would stop talking. Just an hour and forty minutes to go.

He extricated himself from his ‘husband’s’ arm and made his way to a pleasant empty space next to a few deserted catering carts, and watched as Hannibal continued his schmoozing; the man turned it into an art. Will had barely managed to keep up-- so much French, so quickly delivered. Now, he could sip at his champagne, ignore people, and drop the ‘husband’ act for awhile-- he was a watchdog, in the end. 

This plan had been going smoothly, until he felt a tap at his shoe and found Charlotte, looking almost as worn out as he was. “Hey, stranger.” 

“Hey. Didn’t think this was your sort of thing.” 

“It isn’t,” Charlotte agreed, leaning back against the wall, watching crowds of people slowly disperse and reform into new little clumps. The whole picture reminded Will of a petri dish. After a few moments’ silence, she clarified, “It’s a work thing-- I kind of can’t miss it.” 

Will could relate. “Fair enough-- I’m just here ‘cause he wants to peacock a little,” he answered, gesturing at Hannibal. He might have been hard to find, for someone not used to looking for him. 

Charlotte followed his gaze, unsurprised. “You two’re really attached at the hip, huh?” Will looked her way, brows up as if anticipating something else. “You know-- it’s like, if he goes somewhere, you’re there too. Maybe I’m just imagining things.” 

She caught on quick. It wasn’t much of a surprise; it was the first time they’d actually spoken to one another without Hannibal nearby, and he was only thirty feet away. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He took another sip of his drink. Best to keep it cryptic. 

“Have you tried the food?” 

He had not-- his frown and shrug did enough to communicate that sentiment. “Is it any good?” 

Charlotte inhaled deeply, and on her exhale answered, “It’s some of the most pretentious bullshit I’ve ever seen.” Will couldn’t help his laugh-- she was nothing if not honest and foul-mouthed. “Tastes like shit, but everyone’s saying it’s great ‘cause it was plated nicely.” 

“Don’t be nice just for my sake,” Will answered, taking another sip of his champagne and looking into the crowd-- there Hannibal was, chatting with some elderly man in a wheelchair. 

She must have remembered her self-imposed ban on cursing, because she covered her mouth with one free hand and looked at Will as if she’d kicked him. “Shit-- shoot, sorry. Do you… feel the same way about cursing as your husband?” 

Every so often Will felt as if he were talking to a kid-- small, confused, not entirely sure of the rules around her. “Cuss away.” 

Relief flooded through her immediately; her shoulders lowered, and she tipped her head back, looking up at the sky. “Thank god. Have you ever seen Doctor Ingram in class? He’s fucking terrifying. I said ‘ass’ in class once and I thought he’d rip me a new one.” 

This drew another chuckle out of him-- Hannibal certainly _was_ terrifying; Will could imagine that interaction with perfect clarity. Hell, if he weren’t on his best behavior, he’d be worried about seeing Charlotte on their dinner table. “Oh, I believe you. He’s a bit of stickler for manners-- doesn’t like people he sees as ‘rude.’” 

Charlotte laughed right back. “If he fails me because of my mouth I’ll lose my shit. Oh, by the way, quick question-- that’s partly why I came here…” She fished into her dress’s pocket, pulling from it a canape, looking somewhat worse for wear. “D’you know how to eat this thing?” 

The woman, attending a party for Paris’s elite, had taken an _hors d’oeuvre,_ stuffed it into her pocket, and walked over with the explicit intention of showing it to him and asking for advice. It occurred to Will that for all of her apparent brilliance with art, common sense was just not in her wheelhouse. Looking at the crushed canape a second time, he wheezed with laughter. “Why would you put it in your pocket?” 

She gave him a blank look. “So I’d be able to use my hands.” 

“For what? You could have just walked it over. You’d still have one hand left.” She wasn’t even carrying a drink. What kind of logic had she followed to stuff it in her pocket? He looked at the sad little appetizer again, deflated in her hand. “It has lint on it.” 

His point must have struck something, because she at least had the sense to look embarrassed. “Wh-- well. I’ve eaten worse.” 

Will had to cover his eyes with his hand-- he couldn’t look at her, lest he’d bust out laughing at her expense. “I believe that.” He’d seen her apartment, he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d accidentally eaten paint. He took a deep breath, regaining himself. “The first step would be not putting it in your pocket. Then you can just…” Taking a longer look at it, he considered that there was an entire oyster baked into some kind of pastry, mixed with cheese, and some kind of olive-- “That... doesn’t look edible.” At this rate, she’d need to get her dress cleaned; the interior of her pocket must have been a mess. 

She pursed her lips, considering Will’s words. Then, her eyes scanned the company around her; short of the occasional glance and wave from Hannibal, no one paid attention to them. With one guilty look shot in Will’s direction, she tossed the canape behind a catering cart. It landed with a wet ‘splat.’ They held eye contact for half a second before both breaking into giggles. God, it was like talking to a toddler, in some ways-- her problem-solving skills were almost nonexistent. Her only defense, supplied with a knowing glance Will’s way, was, “I’m not great with parties.” 

So he had gathered. He barely managed to regain his composure, making short-lived eye contact with his ever-sociable ‘husband.’ “You’re really not.” 

  
  


Hannibal Lecter enjoyed galas. He enjoyed the conversation-- geared toward art history, with no small amount of drama over tonight’s _pièce de résistance_ \-- he enjoyed the wine, the elegance of the locale, and in particular, he found that he enjoyed introducing his husband to every colleague he came across. The man on his arm was his, in every possible way. There was a bone-deep satisfaction, there. 

Yes, Will had to stand aside for awhile, to avoid exhausting himself through overstimulation, but Hannibal could always join him once he tired of others’ conversation. 

While he spoke with some English-American billionaire or other, he would glance Will’s way, watch as he sunk into the shadows of the courtyard as if he belonged there. His little wallflower had made himself comfortable away from anyone who might want to speak with him. He continued his conversation, half-listening, considering for the umpteenth time in the last few days that he would need _some_ kind of catalyst to push them to the next phase of their relationship. Will had made his boundaries clear years ago: while he didn’t mind the occasional flirting, anything outright was taboo. He would skirt the issues of arousal and murder at every turn, and all Hannibal could do was watch Will stifle when he decided to push at those boundaries. 

It was a less-than ideal situation: when he’d first started this venture with his husband, he had assumed that Will would have capitulated to his true nature within days; then weeks; then months. Two years had passed, and Hannibal was no closer than ever to pulling his little beast out from the shade of his own obligations and into radiance. He remembered again what Will had looked like, face and hands slick with blood, voice rough. ‘ _It’s beautiful._ ’ It was-- and it could be beautiful again. 

Half of him listened to the elderly gentleman before him rattling on about the importance of keeping art alive to be enjoyed by later generations, while the other half of him mused over what next steps would be necessary. For some time he had known about Will’s capacity to fixate on a lifestyle he found ‘appropriate.’ Hannibal had his first glimpse of this behavior when they’d first met Abigail, while Will struggled with his feelings for Alana; and again, when he had reconnected with Will from the confines of his prison in the BSHCI-- he had the wife, the son, the dogs. It was sweet, in a way, his desire to build a family for himself; even if he accepted a lesser, pre-made one. 

It was a pattern. A lifestyle to aspire to-- the dogs, the child, the spouse. It was a simple trifecta that Will had come to hold in great esteem, likely stemming from a lifelong desire to feel that he was accepted. Hannibal could imagine it easily: an isolated little boy, distanced from his peers due to his brilliance. Will Graham had grown up without a mother-- the nuclear family structure must have felt compelling. He would have it all: the perfect ‘normal’ family. A means of fitting in with his peers while maintaining a feeling of belonging. 

Hannibal had taken that from him. Twice, now, including the wife and child he’d appropriated while Hannibal was away. But they were alive, and safe, and continuing to live normal lives, safe from Will, from Hannibal. No, more than anything else, there was one obstacle in Hannibal’s way, and that was the memory of Abigail Hobbs. 

There was no taking back a life; no reversal of time that could bring her from the dead. That teacup had shattered, hard. He took a moment to ignore the gentleman at his side, looking at the man he’d come to see as his equal-- comfortable in the shadows, smiling along with Miss Reese. He seemed happy.

“Have you ever heard of _kintsugi_?” Apropos of almost nothing, Hannibal turned to his conversational partner. Upon receiving a blank look, Hannibal elaborated. “It’s the use of liquid gold to repair ceramics; it’s quite popular in Japan. Often it renders the repaired piece more valuable than the undamaged original.” A means of repairing a shattered teacup, using an entirely alien material. 

Hannibal looked at Miss Reese-- truly considered her. Thin, worryingly so. Almost entirely alone in the world, short of unsavory company; pathetically vulnerable. In need of guidance, of a strong hand to shape her into something palatable. Her sharp edges could be softened, with time and discipline. Gold needed to be melted in order to fit the pieces together, after all. 

Will had already grown protective of her; fond, even. The gears were already in motion. All Hannibal would have to do was push them both in the right direction. He would bend her. Not enough to break, not entirely-- just enough to fit into the cracks of their teacup. They had the dog-- all that was left was the child. And the spouse.

He lifted his champagne flute toward his husband with a smile, before pressing it to his lips for a drink, considering the two young women who had taken up such space in their lives. Abigail Hobbs was a beautiful memory, one that would fade with time, with patience and care. Charlotte Reese would be a means to an end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! Some of you have probably seen this twist coming-- I imagine that the show might have Hannibal trying to steal the Verger baby, or something equally unforgivable, but for my purposes I wanted to add in my own original character to be, uh, shaped by Doctor Lecter. 
> 
> Those purposes? I just really like art history and art conservation! I highly recommend the YouTube Channel Baumgartener Restoration-- it has a lot of in-depth conservation videos that go into both the techniques and the ethics of conservation, and I reference it a lot in this fic! 
> 
> As always, I'd love to know what you think! This chapter in particular required a LOT of deliberation, regarding Charlotte's place in the fic; I don't want to overstep the original show, but I also feel like Hannibal would definitely be the type to forcibly adopt another kid as a replacement for one that had passed on, not unlike a parent getting their kid another hamster and hoping that the kid doesn't notice. 
> 
> Anywho, thank you as always for reading! :D
> 
> P.S. for those curious, I added the art pieces straight into the fic! Please tell me if you do not see them-- I'm not the best at formatting, and would greatly appreciate any feedback on them. Thank you! :D
> 
> P.P.S. I now have a twitter, in addition to my garden-beast tumblr! It's @garden-beasts. I'm trying to get better at posting there, and the #1 way for me to do that is getting attention lol


	13. Gala, Part 2

**Paris, France**

There was one hour left in Will’s personal purgatory, and by that time a small crowd had begun to form at the dias toward the other end of the courtyard. “Looks like it’s about time for unveiling the, ah,” Shit. He knew the artist was distinguished and all, but hell if he could remember the man’s name.  
  
“The Quarton,” Charlotte supplied with a frown, dipping her head back and closing her eyes. “God, I want tonight to be over.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself before turning back to Will. “I’m gonna run for a bit-- gotta do some work stuff. See you around?” 

Will watched the crowd gather as he answered, “See you around.” Off she went; and off Will weaved through a small group of partygoers and toward his ‘date,’ raising his half-full flute of champagne as he neared him. “Enjoying yourself?” 

“Very much so,” Hannibal replied, all charm and confidence, hand slithering toward its station on the small of Will’s back. He turned toward his elderly conversational partner. “Arthur-- this is my husband, Henry. Henry, Mister Arthur Ward.” Hannibal slid his eyes Will’s way as he elaborated, “Mister Ward is a fellow connoisseur of the arts; he has quite the collection of classic works.” With a pointed look Ward’s way, he took a sip of his drink. 

Mister Ward interlaced his fingers together and smiled up at the new addition to their chat. “Oh, I’m just an appreciator,” he demurred, his English accent soft, as if he’d been abroad for some time. “I hardly have the eye or expertise of your husband, here. I just enjoy a good bit of classic art-- speaking of,” Ward turned his head toward the small stage, “I’d hate to miss the main act of the show. Would you gentlemen like to join me?” He patted the armrest of his wheelchair with a knowing smile; “I’m quite lucky to have a front-row seat.”  
  
And so the trio made their way to the stage, with Arthur leading the pack-- even with his comparatively diminutive stature, he parted waves of guests with ease. Hannibal glanced Will’s way, and for a half-second they shared a knowing look; Hannibal’s new acquaintance commanded respect. Will almost rolled his eyes-- of _course_ his ‘husband’ would rub elbows with power. Once they found a comfortable spot at the very front of the crowd, Will turned toward his partner and whispered, “Bit of an expensive hobby, art collection.” 

Hannibal smiled, turning toward Will and muttering back, “Pharmaceutical billionaire.” Of course. Will glanced down at Arthur Ward with a quirk of his eyebrow-- a man reaching the end of his life, gathering interest in the works of other dead men. Must have been nice, having that much money to throw around. Hannibal wasn’t much better, of course, but based on their short introduction alone Will guessed that Ward’s collection was something else entirely. 

“I’ve a great deal of respect for Quarton,” Arthur Ward mentioned offhand, looking up toward the pair. “Long before da Vinci built any rules for anatomical structure, Quarton used observation alone to paint his subjects. A real prodigy.” He paused, looking up at the stage; staring at the painting, tantalizingly hidden behind a partition of velvet curtains. “We can only hope the conservators understood that genius.” His eyes grew soft for a moment, and his thin lips converged into a smile. 

Hannibal looked for a moment at the covered painting before asking, “What are your thoughts on the conservation?”

Ward turned back toward Hannibal, leaning back in his seat. “In all honesty, I have mixed feelings about it-- you likely know that improper conservation can be worse for an art piece than letting the piece remain as it is, in some circumstances.” He paused, considering, “There have been restoration projects that have ruined pieces altogether. It’s a gamble every time-- no going back to have the artist touch it up.” 

Before he could stop himself, Will added, “Can’t exactly revive the dead.” 

Arthur looked at him with a smile. “Exactly. That’s what’s so terribly interesting about these works-- there’s no true way for us to know the artist’s intention. Whatever’s lost to time is gone forever; even restoration is just a guess at what might have been.” He shook his head. “Time marches on, but these pieces are forever trapped in one moment from the artist’s lifetime. That’s the allure of these pieces, for me. Slivers of time immemorial, held together by nothing but respect for what once was.” 

“That’s a very romantic way of seeing things,” Hannibal replied, considering the vast archives of history in the very building where they stood. “It may put your collection in a different light.” 

In response, Arthur Ward threw his head back and laughed. “I like to think I’ve reached an age in life where narcissism can be a forgivable offense if I’m nice enough about it.” He turned back at the stage, his smile thoughtful. “Is it so bad to feel a connection to the great men of history? Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great-- these men are remembered for their personalities, their acts of war, but do you know _why_ they’re remembered, boys?” 

Will could almost feel the air around him curdle. With nothing but a smile this man had both compared himself to late emperors and admitted to knowing about his own narcissism-- whatever malignance was next to them, it was self-aware. His voice was low as he answered, “They came, they saw, they conquered?” 

There was a hard glint in Arthur Ward’s eyes as he smiled at Will, now. “Correct. They were born into a world that could become their own, if only they’d take it.” He unclasped his hands, setting them back on their armrests. “They took it. And they owned it.” 

The lights around the dias flickered, signaling that the time had come. The crowd around them quieted, and a man Will had seen earlier in the evening stepped up to the stage. There were some introductions, followed by a grandiose list of patrons to be thanked for donating to the conservation of the beloved Quarton. Several of them walked to the stage and accepted applause. Will glanced Hannibal’s way with one quirked brow, inwardly mocking every smug bastard on the stage. 

Then, it was time for a small procession of conservators-- the actual people behind the restoration. An awkward little group of people walked on stage, all of their suits rented, all of their dresses a touch lower in quality than those of the patrons. At the very end of them, hiding at the back, was Charlotte. 

From the group a middle aged bearded gentleman walked to the front. “Good evening, everyone! Doctor de Villepin here-- so glad to see that the fruits of our labor are being celebrated! As I’m sure you all know, we were presented with an immense challenge: _Pietà of Villeneuve-lès-Avignon_ . This painting is an oil-on-wood piece, meaning that the very structural integrity of it was in question. Some fellow fanatics might remember the cracks in the paint.” There was scattered laughter from the crowd, and Will suspected that it mostly came from academics. “While I won’t bore you with the specifics, we had to build an entire new machine in our studio for this endeavor-- I’d like to thank Frances Bulgakov for his genius in both engineering _and_ carpentry.” He gestured to a scrawny gentleman standing next to Charlotte, whose bright smile nearly split his face. He waved, before giving the crowd a joking little bow. 

“For the cleaning and dissolution of grime and old varnish, we have the wonderful Madame Saint-Yves.” There was a loud burst of applause from the crowd toward another older woman who only lifted a hand to wave at her apparent admirers. Once the applause died down, Villepin continued with a smile, “And finally, retouching and re-varnishing was completed by myself and my dauntless assistant, Miss Charlotte Reese.” More applause, as Doctor de Villepin et al waved at the crowd and accepted their credit. 

From his seat, Arthur Ward brought his fingers to his mouth and unleashed a piercing whistle, startling half of the group on stage-- not to mention those around him. He followed this up with continued applause, his hands lifted high. Some on the stage gave him a smile and a wave, others ignored him; when Charlotte looked to see who had made the commotion, her eyes landed on Arthur Ward. What little color there was drained from her face. 

  
  


_____

  
  


**Rouen, France**

  
  


Grocery shopping with Hannibal Lecter in tow felt a bit like a cosmic joke. Will had insisted on going to a local chain grocery store, fit with all the wonders of fluorescent lights and boxed foods in order to avoid old habits-- and old means of getting caught. As comfortable as Will felt in the place, Hannibal looked just _barely_ off. It might have been the way he’d pick up something or other and peruse the ingredients with a poise that only Will knew covered outright disgust; it might have been his imagination. But something about Hannibal, a man Will had only ever seen as either effortlessly elegant or, well, unhinged, standing around in an Aldi’s felt a little strange. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. 

Regardless, they continued on: Will picked up the occasional canned good while Hannibal refrained from placing anything into their cart until they hit the produce section. Every so often, Will would glance Hannibal’s way-- just to know he was there. They had stopped by the meats section, where Hannibal was eyeing something hanging from above-- pork, maybe. “Anything look good?” 

“I’m undecided,” Hannibal answered, continuing along and viewing his options, before requesting a few pounds of beef, pork, and duck. Once he paid for his goods and collected them, he gave his husband a pointed look, silently pleased with himself.

It took half a second for Will to understand, and a second more for him to utter, “You want a medal for good behavior?” If his lips twisted into a smile as he spoke, well. This was a new side to both of them, wasn’t it? 

Hannibal shrugged. “One nice wine wouldn’t hurt. Once isn’t a pattern.” 

“So you’ve managed to abstain from ostentation for, what, two days?” God, Will felt a laugh building in his chest-- something about seeing the man so out of his element was just… 

“Three years and two days,” Hannibal corrected with a smile, gently placing his groceries in their cart. “And I’ve been abstaining from more than frivolities.” His eyes locked with Will’s own, and he held that stare until his husband turned away. He noticed with no small amount of gratification that there was the lightest dusting of pink on Will’s neck. 

Will only cleared this throat and pushed the cart forward, beckoning for his apparent ‘husband’ to keep up. They made their way into another aisle, this time full of, well. Miscellaneous crap, really. A pizza stone, whatever that was, some kind of waterproof shoes, coloring books-- colored pencils. Will stopped for a moment, picking those up. Hannibal had always been a fan of the arts, right? The sketches, the drawings… Sure, these were off-brand children’s pencils, but hey. With a surreptitious look behind him, Will tossed a box of them in the cart. He may or may not have thrown in an additional sketchbook-- it wasn’t much, but then again neither was the very easy task of exclusively eating animal meat. It would do. 

Nothing could be appreciated in silence with Hannibal, however. “Taking up a new hobby, Henry?” They’d agreed to use one another’s assumed names as often as possible-- still, the new name chafed at him. It didn’t quite fit. 

Will rolled his shoulders before he could help himself. “Since wine’s off the table,” he answered quietly, eyes ahead of him. This was positive enforcement, wasn’t it? A tangible reward for good behavior. Like taking care of a toddler. All together it cost him a total of eight euros and maybe a touch of his dignity. 

That was about it for groceries-- they could always pick more up later. As they approached the end of a line for the cashier, a small elderly woman hobbled beside them; entering the line itself, she continued perpendicularly to the actual line, step by step. Finally, she crammed her way between them and the other shoppers. It was a slow process, one that could have been circumvented altogether with a simple, ‘Excuse me, may I take this spot?’ but there the two were, watching this geriatric bitch take their spot in line without so much as a glance in their direction. 

Will turned to Hannibal, as if needing confirmation that, yes, this was actually happening to them, and the moment they locked eyes Will could tell that his companion was reconsidering his choice of meats. 

It didn’t take much. A shared look, Hannibal quirking a brow in a silent offer, only half-joking. His eyes, snapping the woman’s way before returning to Will’s own. The barest hint of a smile at the edges of his lips. If Will gave him the okay, Hannibal would kill her. They were barely two days into their new life together, and Will’s companion was tacitly offering to end another. 

He really shouldn’t have found it funny. He _really_ shouldn’t have tucked his head into his shoulder with a laugh, but-- it was their own little secret, wasn’t it? A gruesome inside joke that would instill ice-cold fear in anyone else. Was this what life was like for Hannibal-- meeting every impolite gesture with the smug knowledge that he could just kill off the offender? Will couldn’t stop the snort that came out of him, and finally he had to turn away and cover his mouth. He managed to look back a few moments later, giving his roommate what he hoped was a stern expression indicating that, no, he would _not_ kill the infirm elderly woman for the act of cutting ahead of them in line. 

Will managed to hold that stern look for about two seconds before they both gave into their laughter. “It’s not happening,” he finally managed in a whisper, cheeks hurting with mirth. 

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you mean,” Hannibal answered with a sly little shrug, and Will replied with a poorly hidden chuckle and a smack to his partner’s arm. 

_God_. Did laughing about this make him a bad person? “Don’t make me return your pencils and sketchbook, Doctor.” 

“Tightening the vise, are we?”

“Gotta keep you behaved somehow,” Will shot back with a grin, watching as the woman limped forward in line. If laughing about killing her didn’t make Will a bad person, wondering which cut of her Hannibal would choose certainly did. 

That evening, after the two had finished their dinner of roasted duck and chianti, Will stoked the fire in the fireplace before settling into the couch just in front of it. It had been a good day, for all the strangeness of it-- spending this much time around Hannibal, being domestic with him; it felt unusual. Not bad, not at all, just… Different. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in ages-- even with Molly he’d held something back. Gallows humor didn’t appeal to her, at least not the twisted kind that Will had come to enjoy. Will glanced at his partner, watching him fiddle with his new pencils, his new sketchbook. As brightly colored and cheap as they looked, in Hannibal’s hands they might as well have been professional grade. “Enjoying yourself?”  
  
“Very much so,” Hannibal replied, every so often leaning back and giving Will an analytical stare. “Firelight is flattering on you.” 

The compliment slid right past him. Will only stared at the flickering flame, before asking, “Portraiture?”  
  
Hannibal smiled. “There’s nothing quite like drawing from life. Photography can grasp an unbiased view of its subject, but with drawing, painting…” he trailed off, giving his sketch a thoughtful frown. “The image is filtered through the mind of the artist. The result is a perfect truth of what the artist sees-- beauty, ugliness,” Hannibal’s eyes slid back to Will, dragging up and down his body. “Brutality.” On his cheap sketch pad, in black, he had etched out his husband’s visage-- how every plane of his face interacted with the firelight. As poor as the pigment was in the pencils, with enough time and patience Hannibal managed to capture the way the light cascaded onto him. 

Every so often he would look up from his work, examine the pensive expression in Will’s eyes; the barest hint of sadness. The slightest touch of regret. Most of it had already poured out of him during their residence at Doctor Du Maurier’s-- it had been absorbed by the quiet contentment that had overtaken both of them. 

They had a lifetime of savagery and hedonism ahead of them. All Hannibal had to do was wait. 

  
  
  


____

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  
  


The moment the Quarton was unveiled, there was a wave of applause that swept through the courtyard, even as the occasional art historian rolled their eyes and pouted-- it was luminous and bright, the gold leafing reflecting all the light from the stage. Even the wood appeared to have been perfectly flattened out, a small feat of carpentry. While it would take time for everyone to view it closely on the stage, from afar the piece looked as if it were untouched by time. 

The restoration team made their way from the stage and back into the crowd, and within minutes Charlotte squeezed her way through a throng of guests and to the trio. Her eyes vacillated between Ward and Hannibal, Ward and Will-- trying to suss out the nature of their relationship with a frenzied anxiety that put Will on edge within seconds. “Doctor Ward,” she ground out, stepping into the group and placing herself between the couple and their new acquaintance, “I wasn’t aware you were coming.” 

Arthur Ward returned her awkward hostility with a smile, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Charlotte!” he called, beckoning her over with his arms, “It’s been too long. Please, darling, come here.” Softly, he took her hand and sandwiched it between both of his own, staring up at her as if she were an old friend. “I heard about your work with Quarton, and how could I not? I knew you were destined for greatness. How are you? How are classes?” He leaned forward, staring her down with a dissecting eye. “My love, look how thin you’ve become. Are you eating enough?” 

As warm of a welcome as she’d received from Doctor Ward, Charlotte remained tense, her hand limp in his own. As soon as she heard his question, she ducked her head, eyes on the brick below her. “Yes, Sir. Are you…?” she turned toward Will and Hannibal with a concerned look and inched closer to Ward, wedging herself between them. 

“Chatting with new acquaintances,” Doctor Ward replied with an easy grin, patting Reese’s hand. “Doctor Ingram, Mister Ingram-- Miss Reese here was the genius behind the Quarton’s retouching. I’ve been a patron of her work for, oh, _years_.” He paused, letting Charlotte share a quick glance with the pair, before continuing, “But what am I saying? This is your professor, no?” 

The desperation in Charlotte’s eyes grew more acute, and she glanced past them at no other than Andrew Christianson, his tie undone and his shirt partly unbuttoned. “Charlie!” he bellowed, clapping a hand on her back before taking a spot just behind Ward, “And you’ve run into Uncle Artie, perfect! I was hoping you two would have a little reunion.” With a waggle of his brows, Christianson placed one proprietary hand on the back of his apparent uncle’s wheelchair. “The Doctor and Mister, too! Isn’t this just a lovely little menagerie we have here?” His voice had a drawling lilt to it, his lips curled somewhere between a smile and a sneer. 

_Shit_. That was the only word that crossed Will’s mind as he assessed the pair-- Arthur Ward and Andrew Christianson. The latter already knew about who they really were, but the former… Doing his damnedest to conceal the spike of misery that shot down his spine, he turned Ward’s way. The smug grin and sparkle in his eyes told Will enough. 

“Mister Christianson,” Hannibal nodded, lifting his flute of champagne. “We meet again.” 

Andrew Christianson didn’t miss a beat. “We do indeed,” he answered with a lopsided grin, lifting his own glass of wine. He was quick to turn back to his uncle, however, as he continued, “I told you, Artie, I just _knew_ tonight would be fun.” While sipping at his wine, he shot the pair a quick glance. “I have to say, Charlie, you really have a knack for befriending the most interesting people in any room. How’d you get to know these two?” 

Charlotte drew into herself, standing taller. “Doctor Ingram is my professor, and he happened to be with his husband when we last spoke. We’re not terribly close.” She stared up at Andrew Christianson, eyes conveying a silent challenge.

“Of course, I have a great deal of academic respect for Miss Reese,” Hannibal cut in with a bland smile, “She does excellent work; I’ve only just come to learn about her many other artistic talents.” He glanced at the Quarton painting again, still able to admire the perfect color matches in the retouching. It blended perfectly. 

Christianson snickered, leering over Reese with a touch of sadistic glee. “Oh, she’s _very_ talented. Th--” One shake of the head from Arthur Ward stopped him from continuing, however.

“Speaking of,” Arthur carried on, jumping off of his nephew’s point, “I believe I commissioned you for a piece some time ago, didn’t I?”  
  
Charlotte, her hand still trapped between both of Ward’s own, went rigid. She glanced toward the ‘Ingrams,’ before answering, “I believe I’ve paid you back for that.” 

Ward’s smile didn’t waver. “Not quite, darling. I’d so love to see the piece-- have you been working on it in the interim?” There was a touch of mischief in his expression when he said, “I know how you hate leaving your work unfinished.” 

There was a tense exchange between the three, one Will couldn’t quite parse: Charlotte shared a look with Andrew Christianson. Christianson shrugged, leaning back and glancing down at Ward, as if deferring to him. In response, Charlotte looked down, a lock of hair covering her face. Through all of this, Arthur Ward remained unmoved, eyes on the woman whose hand he kept between his own. There was a quiet fervor in the depths of his eyes, behind the smile, behind the airy nonchalance. They stood there as if preserved in amber, none of the three disturbing the moment; all eyes were on Reese, whose voice was barely discernible as she said, “I don’t have it anymore.” 

_This_ brought down Andrew Ward’s facade, if only for a moment: his wrinkled forehead further creased with surprise, brows up, and he answered slowly, “Oh, my. And where is it now?” 

“I gave it away.” At this confession, Charlotte flinched, before pulling her hand away from Ward’s and holding it close to her chest. “It’s, um. It’s getting late.” Finally, she looked at Will, eyes suspiciously bright in the low light, “You should go home.” 

There was a change in both the uncle and nephew: all of Christianson’s cavalier haughtiness dissipated, and in its place was a fidgety discomfort. With Arthur Ward, the change was more difficult to pin down: his smile remained in place, genuine to any passersby, but there was a coldness in his eyes directed at Charlotte that had Will half convinced that maybe Christianson wasn’t the Pont des Arts killer after all. Ward’s voice was perfectly calm as he asked, as if to be sure, “You gave my painting away?” 

Reese struggled with a response, mouth opening and closing as if words barely evaded her grasp. “I-- um, it--”  
  
Ward waved away anything she could have said, instead barreling through with, “No, no, let’s let bygones be bygones-- I was actually hoping I’d see you here, to be honest.” He stuck his hand into his breast pocket and pulled from it a laminated flower, pressed until its small pink petals could have fit between pages of a book. “I wanted to tell you that the cherry blossom tree in my garden is finally beginning to bloom. You really should come see it.” Turning toward Hannibal and Will, he explained, “I’ve been waiting for ages for this moment-- we’re at a vital time in its growth.” He handed the laminated flower to Charlotte with a smile, returning to his guileless facade. “For you.” 

He might as well have handed her a bomb. Charlotte only stared down at the flower, petrified. Pinched between Ward’s middle and pointer finger was a floral business card that had to have conveyed so much more than a simple invitation. “Artie,” Christianson began, paling, one hand delicately pressing on Arthur Ward’s shoulder, “I don’t think--” 

“No, no.” There was an effortlessness with which he waved away others’ words, as if he had spent a lifetime forcing his own beliefs down others’ throats-- Will could see it in the set of his shoulders, the perfect airy ease. “Please, Charlotte, it’s a gift. Let’s mend the gap between us, shall we?” 

If it were a gift, she wouldn’t have flinched at the sight of it-- no, this was a veiled threat. Will spoke before he could stop himself. “May I see it? It looks beautiful.” He plucked the laminated flower from Ward’s hand before he could object, turning it over for examination. It didn’t feel strange; there was no additional notation on it. “Don’t cherry blossoms usually bloom in spring?” 

Arthur Ward turned to Will with a gleaming grin, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They do indeed, yes; I’m blessed enough to have an indoor courtyard that I use as a greenhouse, at my little _chateau_ in the countryside. You and your husband should come and see it sometime, Mister Graham--” he paused, blinking as if he were surprised by his own words. “So sorry, Mister _Ingram_. You remind me terribly of an acquaintance I once knew in America-- ex-FBI, actually. Interesting man. Had a real knack for catching killers.” He paused, eyes sparkling while he locked them with Will’s own. “Stepped into their minds.” He glanced toward Hannibal, before turning back. “I used to wonder if he’d stepped too far.” His smile returned, blossoming against the weathered cracks and grooves of his skin. His eyes remained on Will’s, knowing. 

Will wanted to punch him; he could feel himself begin to pull back for it when the hand at his side grew tight against him. Right-- not the time. Still, he turned to Hannibal, concerned. It wasn’t just one upstart kid who knew about them, now; no, looking at Arthur Ward, he could feel a pull. Like gravity, he drew these bystanders into his orbit, closer and closer to the black hole at the center. He glanced at the nephew, Christian, and back at Charlotte; they were toys to him. Means to an end. He put his own arm around his husband, now, turning toward him. “I think we should get going.” He stopped, hesitating for a moment before turning to Charlotte-- “Are you coming?” 

The invitation came as a surprise-- she blinked at him for a moment, bemused. With a glance and a wave toward Arthur Ward and his nephew, she turned and left. Together they gathered their coats and shuffled back out of the castle, and as soon Hannibal pulled his phone out to hail a car, Will turned to the unexpected third in their trio, hands shoved into his pockets. “So.” 

Charlotte, head down and still looking shaken, looked up. “So?”  
  
It was about time to cut the bullshit. He stepped forward, leaning in close and speaking lowly, “You realize you’ve implicated us in your private business with a serial killer, right?” 

_Finally_ the penny dropped. She sighed, looking away and running a nervous hand through her hair. “Look--”  
  
“No, _you_ look,” Will snapped, staring her down until she relented and looked him in the eye. “You gave us a painting that a billionaire seems to be _killing_ people for-- you realize that? Do you understand what position that puts us in?” At least she knew enough to look down in shame. “Charlotte.” She looked back up, tears welling in her eyes, and Will swallowed down any further flagellation he had planned, instead taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. If nothing else, tonight he’d get answers. “Why are they killing people? Why are you involved in this-- in _any_ of this, at all?” Wiping away tears, Charlotte glanced up at Hannibal, who had made himself perfectly comfortable in this confrontation as a fly on the wall. He only stared back expectantly; his husband seemed more than able to handle this interaction himself. She sighed, crossing her arms together and going silent. “Well?” 

“Just-- give me a second,” she snapped, covering her face with one hand and taking a deep, shaky breath, followed by another one. Will and Hannibal remained, staring her down while she gathered herself. With a sniffle, she removed her hand and looked around. Confirming they were alone. “The painting I, uh, gave you--” she cleared her throat, wiping away a fresh tear, “I-- I need you to keep this between us.” 

Aha. The time had come: Hannibal’s turn to play the patriarch, gentle and kind where Will had been sharp and unyielding. “Charlotte,” he uttered, voice quiet enough to be carried away with the wind, “You can trust us.” Slowly, carefully, he wrapped a hand around her slim shoulders and pulled her into a hug-- bracing, warm, comforting enough to get her to talk. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone.” For now. 

Another sniffle; eyes darting between the two, she nodded, pulling herself up to her full height. Hannibal let her go, expectation. “So, um,” her voice was rough from holding back tears, “The painting, uh, _Le Radeau de la Méduse_ , it, uh.” She cleared her throat, stalling for time. “It’s not the only piece of mine that you guys own.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, here it is!! I've been so so SO excited about this chapter, for a few different reasons; I hope you guys like Arthur Ward! I've been crafting him for awhile, and I really wanted to make a meaty, strong character-- in all honesty, I don't write OCs often so this has been a very interesting challenge! 
> 
> Finally, the next chapter is going to have a slightly different tempo to it, which is a bit of a writing experiment that I'm planning-- I hope you enjoy that as well! 
> 
> We're back to weekly installments! Thank you for your patience during the holidays. :)
> 
> As an aside, the wooden conservation idea came from Baumgartener Restoration's "Wood That It Were So Simple" series, which is such a treat! I recommend watching it. The first part is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OLxDD1xsjHw


	14. Much To Consider

**Paris, France**

  
  


For the third time Charlotte Reese entered their Paris apartment, again under less-than-favorable circumstances. Regardless, Hannibal was polite enough to help her out of her coat, noting with no small amount of distaste the strong scent of turpentine and… indeterminate, pungent chemicals. If he heard the slightest rattle from one of her pockets, he didn’t say a word. “Now then,” he began, gesturing for her to make herself comfortable, “I’m terribly curious about the second art piece you mentioned-- but perhaps you’d prefer to treat your hand first?” Hannibal had smelled blood from her before they’d even left the party; in all likelihood Ward managed to scratch her sometime during his grandfatherly handholding. 

Will, who appeared to have been largely unaware of the scratch, furrowed his brows in concern, watching as Charlotte gingerly held her hand out, palm up, revealing four jagged red lines, roughly carved. “Yeah, sorry, Doctor Ward kinda…” she shrugged, eyeing their kitchen sink. “May I?” As soon as she received the smile and nod from Hannibal, she hurried over, rinsing her hand off. She was careful to rinse the sink out of any spilled blood. She spent several minutes bent over the sink, an innocent Lady Macbeth, turning the water red with another’s cruelty. It suited her, in Hannibal’s humble opinion. Perhaps one day she’d better play the part. 

Finally, she finished; after rinsing out the sink and wiping her hands on her dress, she turned back to the pair and stared. “So, um.” With her good hand at her neck, she walked around the apartment, circling their dining table. “About _Le Radeau_ ,” she began, eyes flicking everywhere except to her hosts, “Doctor Ward kind of-- uh, commissioned me.” 

“We’re aware,” Will answered, arms crossed. “What we want to know is why, and how.” 

“Well, why is kind of funny-- let’s, uh, start with ‘how.’” She wandered toward one of their many expansive windows, before continuing, “I met Doctor Ward through Andy when I was about fifteen. We were kind of-- well, we were classmates. I was the scholarship student, he was the guy whose dad named the library after himself, and, you know.” She shrugged, as if that constituted a proper answer. “I kind of got into, um.” She went quiet, eyes narrowing in thought. “Well, I had some classmates who’d use Adderall to study, and I tried it, and then I kind of, uh. Got into it. And some, like, other… stuff.” She flashed an awkward, toothy smile, adding, “Sober for a year, though!” 

If the situation weren’t quite so delicate, Hannibal would have raised his brows in disbelief. Still, her purported timeline would explain why she didn’t recognize them-- she would have been too distracted by her vice. “That must have been difficult; a new school, a new country-- a great deal of change to undergo when just getting sober.” 

Charlotte only shrugged, turning back to the window. “Yeah, so, uh. My parents told me that they could manage with either the gay thing, _or_ the drug thing, but, um. You know.” She lifted one shoulder, pocketing her hands. “Both of them together was a little much for them.”

Hannibal’s eyes slid to his husband, watching closely for any reaction-- Will only stared, jaw tensed, before asking, “And that’s why you don’t talk to them?” 

Faced away from them, Charlotte nodded. “So, Andy let me stay in one of his places back in Jersey-- it was close enough to school, and, well.” Another pause. “His family’s in pharmaceuticals, and it was just-- it was manageable. That way. And through him I met Doctor Ward, and he was really interested in my art projects, and he offered to buy a few off of me, and it just sort of...” Voice growing quieter, shakier, she gesticulated for a moment, hands waving as if to represent a spiral-- “We had an agreement, and Doctor Ward knew about it. And it just-- it worked.” 

Hannibal noted Will’s hands, clenched into fists. What a perfect story-- tragic, removing her of any guilt or complicity, presenting her as the darling young damsel in distress. Rather than elaborating on his opinion, however, Hannibal only said, “That doesn’t explain why Doctor Ward would be willing to kill you for your work, Charlotte.” He went quiet, watching her, before he continued, “Tell me. What personal importance does your work have to him?” 

She didn’t turn around to meet their eyes when she answered, only looking up toward the city’s skyline. “It was about two years ago when I realized that the supplies he’d given me for my studies were historically accurate.” There were very few moments when Hannibal Lecter felt particularly surprised, or displeased, but those were roughly the emotions that settled inside of him as Charlotte turned toward him, eyes flashing to his very expensive, very historically important Watteau sketch. It had cost him well over two hundred thousand euros, and he had purchased it based on the _assumption_ that it was the real thing. “He bought my studies from me, had me throw a fake signature on it for what he called ‘whimsy,’ and sold them as the real thing.” Her eyes lingered on his Watteau sketch, and the curtain on this lurid charade finally fell. “Your Watteau… I’m sorry, Doctor Ingram.” 

He was going to put a twist on the concept of baked ‘lady fingers.’ There was very little fat to her, let alone her bony little hands, but the caustic irony would be worth it. He’d continue with the tongue, the eyes; Charlotte Reese’s form and musculature was his canvas, and he would take her crude flesh and elevate it into something that she could never hope to accomplish: he would make an art piece out of her. Original, authentic, art more honest than she could ever hope to create with her own hands. He’d cut her hands off at the wrists, pluck her eyes out of their sockets, take from her the very tools she had used to trick him. She was a dead woman walking; she just didn’t know it. Hannibal walked toward his once-treasured sketch, finding it to be skewed; incorrect, somehow, boorish and crass with fraud.

“Jesus,” Will muttered, running a hand over his face, before walking away from Hannibal and toward the living corpse, “They’ve been making your life a living hell for a decade.” 

“I mean, they helped me,” she choked out, hands leaving her pockets so that she could hold herself together. “I don’t even know how much is out there-- hundreds of works, maybe thousands, and I just…” 

Will was quick to cut in, one hesitant hand closing in on her shoulder before he pulled it away. “That wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for being tricked.” 

Charlotte turned to him, for a moment looking directly into his eyes. “I didn’t leave. I just...” she sighed, covering her eyes. “I just stayed, and I helped, and I thought--” she took one deep breath, “I thought I found people who were okay with who I was. And I didn’t want to lose that. So I just-- I _helped_.” She went quiet, hand over her face in shame; deservedly so, in Hannibal’s opinion, but she would come to understand the concept of punishment so much more intimately yet.

He watched as Will gently elbowed her, facing toward the window as he replied, “Well. It’s a victimless crime, at least. Nothing like murder.” Will turned back, glancing toward Hannibal, the quietest indication of their shared secret. Hannibal looked back, guiltless. 

With a snort, Charlotte continued, “I left because he started using my work to replace extant art. Museum pieces.” She stared ahead for a moment in silence, and once again Hannibal’s attention was caught; for the second time that evening surprise took him. “That’s why he won’t have me killed, if you were wondering.” She looked down at her black shoe, noting the scuffs. “Not many people can perfectly recapture an image onto canvas. Fewer still can trick experts.” Hands back in her pockets, she stalked off toward the study at the front of their apartment, one bony finger dragging over the delicate yellow-gray sky. “This is a replacement. The only one in the world that’ll let him get away with taking the real thing.”

That was it, wasn’t it? A final straw for a woman whose moral compass was already skewed enough to fabricate the works of masters. Hannibal was the next to speak, eyes on Reese. “And you’d prefer the deaths of innocent people to the theft of an artwork?” What an interesting moral quandary she’d presented. On one hand, she was the perfect meal for breaking a years-long fast; on the other, he couldn’t quite fault her logic. Will turned to her in reaction, suddenly concerned. 

“It’s theft from _society_ ,” she answered, turning to Hannibal with the intensity of one incensed. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend to be perfect here, but letting one man steal the peak of mankind’s thoughts and efforts is just-- it’s wrong.” Hannibal responded with one considerate frown; she wasn’t wrong, necessarily; he couldn’t speak ill of her willingness to step over corpses for her principles. “It may be just as wrong to let it happen, but--” she sighed, running her good hand through her hair. “It’s not like I’ve been killing any of these people; I’ve just been a-- a bystander.” 

Will spoke next, slowly, enunciating every syllable in a way Hannibal had come to recognize as the coil of a snake before its attack. “You’re letting people die over a painting?” 

Charlotte, usually so reserved, turned toward Will with a similar fury. “You think I have control over this?” 

“I think you could send the painting over and be done with it.” 

There was a moment of silence, wide-eyed and tense. Charlotte’s jaw set and fist clenched as if she were considering violence; she wouldn’t get far, of course, but how charming to see a fire alight in her. Perhaps there was still space for her, in the little dollhouse Hannibal had crafted for him and his husband. “And then what?” She spat, taking one step toward Will, “And then I make another one? And another one? And then suddenly all the world’s masterpieces are just _fakes_?” She looked Will up and down, a cold disgust overtaking her face. “I’ll die before that happens, and chances are he’s gonna be the culprit.” With one last glare, she ordered, “Give me the pressed flower. That was meant for me.” 

In silence, Will handed pulled it from his pocket and handed it over. She snatched it from him, sending a curt ‘thanks’ Hannibal’s way as she pulled on her coat. “Thank you for the convenient out, gentlemen, but I have to go. I imagine I’ll see you both either at class, or in court.” Leaving their apartment, she closed the door with an audible ‘click.’ 

  
  


____

  
  


**Baltimore, Maryland**

  
  


It took Zeller and Price two weeks to crack, which was about ten days longer than Jack had expected. The call came in at nine at night, just as he was readying himself for bed. He considered ignoring it until he noticed the caller ID. “Jack Crawford speaking.” 

“Hey! Jack,” came Brian Zeller’s voice, sounding almost-- tense. “So, uh. Price and I might have been doing some digging into that bank info you sent along--” 

Jimmy cut in, sounding distant. “We’re at your front door-- I think you’re gonna want to see this.” That was all the convincing Jack needed-- he wrapped a robe around him, a layer of protection between his colleagues and his thin pajamas, and made his way to the door. Opening it, he found Jimmy and Brian on his porch; the latter at least had the manners to look uncomfortable about the whole affair. Price, on the other hand, looked nothing but sleep deprived. “Let’s talk inside.” 

Jack stepped aside and gestured into his home; it was the first time he’d ever had either of them over, and shockingly only Zeller was rubbernecking about, eyeing his surroundings and contextualizing them with the man who owned them. Jimmy only beelined for a table, setting down a small briefcase. “Sorry about him,” Zeller sighed, hands in his pockets, “He’s kind of lost his mind with all of this.” 

“I haven’t lost my mind any more than you two have,” Jimmy replied breezily, cracking open the briefcase and pulling out a few files. “And given that we’re all here now, we’re about as crazy as each other.” He cracked a smile, and all Jack could do was echo it, as uncomfortable as he was with the intrusion. It never hurt to have someone on his side.   
  
“What have you got?” 

Jimmy, already grasping onto different files and gesticulating, answered, “Oh, nothing that could hold up in court.” 

“Oh, yeah, this is not above board,” Zeller cut in, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I had to ask my fiancée for help, it’s all very…” he trailed off, smile wavering. “It’s not above board.” 

Well, that was less than exciting news. Jack, remembering that these two men had barged into his home largely uninvited, crossed his arms and waited for whatever evidence they’d put together that warranted a late-evening visit. “You’ve got to give me more than that, boys.” 

“Don’t worry,” Jimmy replied, making himself comfortable by spreading papers all around Jack’s dining room table, “We’ve got something. Technically it’s circumstantial at best, but…” he looked Zeller’s way. Zeller looked back, before rubbing at the back of his neck in a nervous tic. 

Brian finished the thought, staring at Jack with tense concern. “It’s compelling.” 

Fair enough. Jack saddled up to a chair and sat down, squinting his eyes at the small text. What was this, a paper on classic literature? “Before we get into that, let me preface this,” Price began, delicately unfolding a pair of reading glasses, “You’re gonna need a quick intro to classical Roman tragedy and Greek philosophy.” 

This was not how Jack Crawford, criminal profiler and crime scene specialist, imagined his evening going. Still, he sighed, making himself comfortable in his hard wooden chair and clasping his hands together. “Go on.” 

Zeller sat down with the two of them as Price began, “Okay. So, technically, we have Brian’s lovely fiancée to thank for the first step in this little case we’ve so generously taken on.” He shuffled a few papers while peering over his glasses, and for a moment Jack could have sworn that he looked like a stern librarian. He shared a quick glance with Zeller, confirming that he wasn’t alone in this. 

“Yes, uh. For some context, Rachel works with UBS as a data analyst, so.” Brian shrugged, looking down at his hands. “And when the bank account information you gave us turned out to belong to UBS, a Swiss bank, well.” Brian licked his lips, eyes searching for the right words. “That was dumb luck.” 

“The best kind of luck,” Jimmy nodded sagaciously, further cementing the role of a librarian. 

Zeller went pink in the face, taking a breath, before continuing, “Yeah, so I asked if she could look something up for me. It’s all very-- I mean, technically it was outside of the bounds of her job, and, ah. Well. It was a one-time thing.” Jack nodded; they had all made a few ethical compromises in order to get a few answers.* “So, we ended up tracking the account to a company in Panama, interestingly enough.” Brian looked Price’s way, and Price, the only one who had brought paper evidence, spread his arms like an MC introducing the main act. 

“This,” he began, looking at Jack with no small amount of mischievous amusement, “Is where my classic literature minor pays off.” Jack had to bite his lips together from making an impatient comment, and Brian was nice enough to just roll his eyes. “Let’s start with the Roman philosopher and playwright, Seneca. He specialized in tragic plays, and--” 

Okay, enough of the bullshit. “What’s your point, Price?” Jack snapped. 

There was a moment of silence while Price and Zeller shared a look. “I will add two fun facts to this spiel every time you interrupt me, Jack,” Jimmy replied, “I’m also gonna need you to be aware of the fact that you are no longer my boss, and this is a huge favor I’m doing for you, so maybe put the intimidating snarl down and let me finish in peace.” Jack, still very much in his pajamas and robe, took a deep breath; inhaling furiously and exhaling with significantly more patience. He followed that up by conceding to Jimmy’s point with one mortified nod. “Thank you. Now, then-- Seneca was born in Cordoba, Spain before Jesus was born, and died in Rome. Those are your fun facts. Now.” He adjusted his glasses, and Brian Zeller’s mouth twitched, because Jimmy had effectively told Jack to ‘shush.’ At least Jack and Zeller could share in their silent amusement. “He was a tragic playwright who wrote about Greek myths-- _Medea, Oedipus, Agamemnon_ , those, but he _also_ wrote about _Thyestes_ , a Greek king who, long, and very interesting story short, cannibalized his own children.” 

Now they were getting somewhere. “Go on.” 

“That’s some background context to the shell company Brian’s fiancée found: to start, it’s called Seneca, and it claims to be a ‘business consulting firm’ specializing in some bullshit about data analysis.” Jimmy waved his hand, as if to wave off the subject. “What’s significantly more interesting, however, is the ‘about’ page.” He pulled a paper from a small stack he’d created, handing it to Jack. On it was a list of three alleged ‘Chairmen.’

  
  


_Chairman: Zeno Petropoulos_

_Co-Chairman: Thyestes Christatos_

_Co-Chairman: Atreus Diogenes_

  
  


One name stood out-- Thyestes Christatos. Aside from that, though, the names, while certainly not heard everyday, weren’t terribly special. “Are these other names…” Jack looked up at Price, half hesitant to speak lest he become the recipient of more unwanted fun facts, “Are they relevant?”

Price grinned. “They are indeed! You can ignore the Petropoulos and Christatos, those are probably just to cover up the full usage of classic Greek names. But Atreus?” Jimmy, ever a fan of presentation, paused for effect. “That’s Thyestes’s brother in the play. Not to mention,” here, Jimmy pulled out another file, placing it on the table with mischievous relish before sliding it Jack’s way, “The name Diogenes actually belongs to a Greek philosopher, too; a contemporary of Plato’s. Real son of a bitch, let me tell you, he loved a good fight of rhetoric.” 

Jack gave Price a long, miserable look, waiting patiently for him to get to his point. This time, Jimmy took enough pity on him to resume with, “Okay, I can save the featherless biped story for another time; _anyway_. Even though a lot of his writings were technically lost to history, there are some critiques toward him that mention writings about what makes a tyrant, right?” 

“...Right,” Jack managed, closing his eyes and waiting for the _point_. Zeller had to bite his lips to hold back a smile. 

“ _Anyway_ , he disagrees with some of the social expectations of the time, that a major criteria of tyranny is,” He turned to Zeller, eyes sparkling. “What is it, Brian?” 

It was Brian’s turn to wear the smug grin as he turned to Jack and said, “Cannibalism.” 

Oh. _Oh_. A pattern was beginning to emerge, one so thoroughly hidden in dusty academic bullshit that it reeked of leather bound books, antique furniture-- pieces of collapsed churches. “Go on.” 

“It doesn’t stop there,” Brian gushes, turning toward his coworker to egg him on. 

Jimmy pointed to the same file, a few excerpts of it highlighted in blue. “There was another contemporary who disagreed with Plato’s and Greek society’s views on cannibalism and tyranny,” he began, pointing to the short list of Seneca’s chief operating staff, “Zeno. Less famous than Diogenes; his writings are also long gone, but one critique that holds up is about his views on--” 

“On cannibalism,” Jack finished, looking at the list again with mounting horror. “You’re telling me that this whole shell company is a series of highbrow cannibalism jokes.” 

Brian nodded, staring down at the files. “Pretty much, yeah. I mean, I know this isn’t much-- technically it’s a dead end, but...” All humor and excitement dissipated from the room as the reality of the situation settled in; the three looked down at the documents Price had laid before them, recognizing a dark joke when they saw one. It wasn’t unlike one of the many evenings he’d spent with the doctor, listening to him make casual jokes that only made sense in grotesque context. 

Jack propped his elbows on the table, fingers lacing together so he could hold them against his chin. “That son of a bitch is alive.” 

  
  


___

  
  


**The SNCF train, Between Paris and Rouen**

  
  


Will circled the crime scene of the first murder like a hawk; he took into consideration the locale, the body, hanged by her own viscera. The blue face, contorted into an expression of rigor mortis induced surprise. The poor workmanship that left her arms dangling, the intended silhouette broken into unrecognizable pieces. This was a failure, a bungled prototype that would educate its creator on how to better set a scene. A frigid memory recreated. _Do you remember when you first rejected me_? 

Next to the first corpse, cast in the delicate resin of his mind palace, sat the second body. Fully impaled, an image of exquisite suffering; built and placed to be seen. Birds fluttered about, pecking at the millet the killer had placed; defiling the body further with their subsequent bowel movements. This was progression: the body was arranged as intended this time, bent back so as to allow the javelin a shorter route between the rectum and tongue. The fingers were curled; the mouth was open, lips straining around their extruding murder weapon; the eyes stared listlessly into space, unseeing. This was the first success, the beginnings of experimentation via millet and bird shit. A message: _I am not going away_ . _See my gifts for you._

The third body was the beginning of mastery. Immolated carefully, with her hair saved for later artistic touches; forced into a kneeling position, likely while still alive. _This punishment isn’t for you; you’re only the effigy which I must burn. Your tears do nothing for me. Cry rivers if you must, but they won’t douse the flames charring you inside and out. Let her see the hellfire she’s unleashed by leaving me. Your hair will be message enough_. 

The most recent corpse is cumulative evidence of lessons learned: an art piece devoted to vice. _I see you. I see your failings. I see the cracks in your stability, and I’ll pick and pick and pick at them until the cracks are all you have left. This is punishment for leaving me. This is punishment for leaving your work undone. Look at yourself, broken and beaten down by life. Alone. Look at your likeness, made wondrous by your very mistakes. I could make you into so much more than this. I could make you into something beautiful. Come back to me. I’ll take innocent lives until you see the weight of your mistakes crush you. I’ll mock you for your heartache. Come back to me. I’ll take more lives until you do, and I’ll rub your face in cruelty. I will turn flesh and blood into the medium with which I make art, and I will punish you with every piece. Come back to me. I’ll make you just as guilty as I am, if not more. These bodies are your creations just as much as they’re mine. Your rejection has turned you into a participant. You can end this beautiful carnage. Come back to me._

“Come back to me, Henry,” Hannibal called, voice soft. Near Will’s ear.   
  
Blinking, he snapped his eyes open, hands quick to rub at his face. Jesus. “How long was I out?” Will asked, finding that the semi-stiff pillow where he’d set his head was his alleged ‘husband’s’ shoulder. He sat up, jostling Saucisse and looking out the train window. 

“Not long,” Hannibal replied, gaze soft. “It’s impressive how little time it takes for you to enter a REM cycle; I could see your irises shifting underneath your eyelids.” 

If nothing else, Will managed a half-hearted smile while petting at Saucisse’s ears. “Waking me up before the nightmares started in earnest? I appreciate it.” 

“What were you dreaming about?” 

Ugh. Will was half tempted to ignore Hannibal and drop the subject then and there. Instead, he replied with a lowered voice, “The Pont des Arts killer actually.” He sat up further, rolling his shoulders and neck. Even after all this time away it was so still so easy to sink back in, feel the silent messages barrage his mind. He sighed. “He’s starting to plead with her to return to him.” 

Face blank, Hannibal prodded, “‘He,’ being whom?” 

That was the question, wasn’t it? Christianson, Ward, someone else? No-- it had to be at least one of the two. “Can’t say for sure.” Whoever the killer was, his motivations felt clearer than ever: anger, betrayal, loneliness. Increasingly, desperation. “He’s getting impatient, though. He’s going to start taking more risks.”

Hannibal considered this for a moment. “Should we have left Paris?” 

Will shrugged. “She seemed content to handle it on her own.” Sure, there was a small pit in the bottom of his stomach at the thought of something happening to her, but he’d learned years ago to not prod where he wasn’t invited. Besides, she seemed mostly confident that nothing would happen to her. For the most part. Until she mentioned her own demise. He sighed again, trying and failing to derail that train of thought. “It’s not like she’s perfect in any of this, either.” 

“True,” Hannibal nodded, his tone already bridging into her defense, “But on some level I can understand her way of thinking; preservation of ideas and their outcomes is a worthwhile endeavor.”

Glancing away from the window and back toward his traveling companion, Will smirked. “Yeah? Pretty sure you started planning a meal when she told you about that sketch of hers.” 

Concession on Hannibal’s face took the form of minute muscle changes; the barest hint of a smile, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “That’s less preservation and more deceit.” He paused a moment, though, staring into Will with a softness that had him averting his eyes. “Still, you know me well.” 

Will smiled down at his lap, knuckles stroking the bridge of Saucisse’s nose. “Hard not to.” 

They made it to their home in the late afternoon, meandering through the city while they let Saucisse stretch her legs and acclimate to the new environment. Once there, Will started a fire in the hearth, and tumbled into the couch just next to it. He’d missed this. “Do you want to order in tonight?” 

Sitting down next to Will, Hannibal pursed his lips in consideration. “Giving your husband a reprieve from laboring over a hot stove?” Will noted with the smallest touch of foreboding that he had a sketchbook and worn set of pencils in hand.

Still-- before he could stop himself, Will laughed. “There’s also the fact that we don’t have any groceries, but you can think what you like.” 

Hannibal pulled his phone from his pocket, pausing for a moment before perusing a few local options. “May I choose the menu for tonight?” 

Tipping his head back against the couch, Will smiled. “When do you not?” There was no answer from Hannibal, only a self-satisfied smile as he made the request. That done, Hannibal set his phone aside and opened the sketchbook. Will only continued petting Saucisse, eyes on the flames. 

“Tell me, Henry,” Hannibal began, voice low, “What are your thoughts about Misters Ward and Christianson?” 

Slowly, Will’s eyes slid Hannibal’s way. He didn’t speak for a moment, only regarding Hannibal with that same analytical expression he used when thinking about violence. “I think Ward is going to get us into his orbit before we can help it. And I think that you want that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, all! Turns out this chapter sort of wrote itself, in part since it's been percolating in my noggin for months on end. As always, looking forward to your thoughts and reactions! Please note that the next chapter or two will be heavily Rouen (and fluff) focused, for those of you who prefer murder mystery plot. I personally find Will's and Hannibal's relationship to be just as fascinating, and frankly I feel that that aspect of their relationship hasn't received enough attention in the last few chapters. Hoping you'll enjoy them! :) 
> 
> P.S., I can legitimately cite my sources about Hannibal's cannibal jokes in that shell company. The Seneca and Thyestes bits are pretty easy to Google, but regarding Greek philosophy and general thoughts on cannibalism, you can read a JSTOR article about it here: 
> 
> https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/431428?seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents
> 
> _____
> 
> *Hi all! I’d like to make it known that I Do Not approve of this-- first off, any policing system is duty-bound to follow the word and spirit of the law. Let’s be real, tho, police do not. I’m using a real world problem for writerly purposes, but I want it to be known that anyone upholding the law should be held to higher standards than these three. This standard just happens to be the current one for American police, however, as political circumstances have helpfully shown us this last week.


	15. Settling Down

**Rouen, France**

  
  


In and out. Every breath was measured, soft. He could hear his heartbeat, _thump-thump-thumping_ at half the rate of his lungs; expanding. Contracting. In and out. His knife remained at Hannibal’s throat. All it would take was one twitch of his wrist. One slight change of angle, and his throat would be slit, and all of that black-red blood would pour out of someone else for a change. He sat atop him, ready to slice.

Hannibal only looked at him, eyes wide, focused. Pleased. Will’s heartbeat was steady, until it wasn’t. Warm palms made their way up his thighs; he pressed the knife a hair deeper into his throat; the skin collected around each side of the blade. “Do you want to kill me?” Hannibal’s voice, always low, echoed throughout his skull. “Or do you just want an end to this stasis?” Fingers pinched at the inside of his thighs, and the monster below him smiled. “Either option is capitulation.” 

“I know that.” He pressed the knife in, further. He drew blood, ink-black in the mid-morning sun, spilling from his jugular until the floor was wet with it, until it flooded the room. He could have drowned in it. They both could. Hannibal never looked away. He sat up, through the knife, through the ichor that spilled from his throat in gouts, using one hand to cup at Will’s jaw. 

In and out. Deep breaths. Old coping mechanisms. A second hand curled around the back of his neck. A forehead pressed to his own. “What do you give up by giving in?” 

Will didn’t need to consider his next words. “Everything.” He felt his own breath ricochet back to him, close as his face was to Hannibal’s. 

“You gave up everything when we started our life together,” Hannibal amended, eyes soft; the pitch black lake of blood gave way to firelight, and wine, and countless dinners enjoyed in comfortable silence. No longer straddling an opponent, Will was sat right in his lap; where Hannibal wanted him. It felt inevitable. A years-long trap set for him, ready to spring the moment he relaxed. “What do you give up now? What do you have left to surrender?” Hannibal’s thumb stroked his cheek. It was so tender it ached. 

He opened his mouth; closed it again. Tried turning away, until the hands at his neck and jaw turned him back. Eyes on his. Brown and gold in the firelight; all encompassing. 

There was no escape, this time. No looking away-- he answered in a rush of breath. “Myself, at this point.” That was all he had left. 

They were circling the drain, inexorably spiraling. There was no real choice with Hannibal, Will reasoned-- no matter how he turned away, he’d always be corralled in the direction Hannibal wanted. “That would just be reciprocation.” He spoke so softly that Will could barely hear him over the gravel in his voice. The hand on his jaw crept to his side; the hand on the back of his neck remained right where it was. Hannibal leaned forward, slowly. 

Capitulation. That was what this was. Letting go of everything he had ever known about right, wrong, decency. But Hannibal was warm, and the firelight was golden, and there were no consequences in dreams, anyway. 

It started with lips against his own and ended in teeth pulling at every inch of his skin. In and out. Every movement was done in perfect unison to his breaths; his hands wrapping around Hannibal’s shoulders and gripping into his hair, hard enough to hurt. In. Shifting onto his knees to press up against him; out. Biting, pulling at Hannibal’s lower lip before pressing his open mouth to another; in. Those warm hands, slipping beneath his shirt and heating him up from the outside in. A tongue in his mouth, exploratory, gentle until it wasn’t. His breathing grew erratic, and the measure that had decided their every move shattered into pieces. All that was left were warm hands, and a warm body against his, finally, _finally_ close enough. 

Until it wasn’t. The fabric of Hannibal’s button down became an insurmountable hurdle, until Will pulled back, breathless, and tore the monster out of his person suit. He started with the collar; bared his teeth in a vicious grin as he felt buttons pop. Finally he’d see what was under that perfect facade, clothes and boundaries torn down in one fell swoop. He let his hands grasp onto that absolute fucking rug on Hannibal’s chest, and he let them _pull_. How long had he been waiting to do that? Months? Years? 

Lips, back on his own; the hands on his back pulled him close again, and Will felt fingers digging into his ribcage. It hurt; bright spots of pain against the rest of his skin. Their teeth clacked. Still not close enough. He returned his attention back to Hannibal’s half-open shirt and ruined the rest of it, lips smacking together even as Hannibal shrugged it off. Hannibal, in turn, was gentler: he took his time with each button, slipping it through the loop, and with every gasping breath that passed Will dug his nails into Hannibal’s skin and let his hands drag until he smelled blood. It took too long for his shirt to finally slip off of him-- entirely too long, ages upon ages, but the moment he could shake the sleeves off of his arms he grabbed onto Hannibal’s jaw and slammed their lips together. Mutual pain. Cathartic agony. If his hips pressed closer, and closer, and _closer_ , neither of them mentioned it. Theirs was a language of touch, then, and Will chased the thrill that raced up his spine every time he felt friction. 

He let himself sigh. He let himself gasp and shudder, and he let his mouth fall open while lips brushed down to his jaw, his throat, finding purchase against his jugular. Capitulation. Concession. Succumbing to the inevitable. That was all this was, as he let his legs spread apart, as he felt a hand brush at his thigh, move inward. He held Hannibal close. Let fingertips skim against his cock, now in stark relief against his trousers. Hannibal was no better off. 

They separated for a moment. Looked at one another; Hannibal’s eyes were alight, lips flushed. He leaned forward, just enough to mutter in Will’s ear, “Your subconscious is terribly demure.” More than fingertips, now, Will felt a hand curl around him, warm through his trousers. “Is this the outer limit of your imagination? Chaste touches?” The hand shifted, pushing up, feather-light against him. Lips against his jaw. Hot breaths against his ear. The hand on him warm and inviting, if only he’d just accept it. “How thoroughly you’ve repressed yourself.” 

***

Will sat up from the couch with a gasp, startling the pup who had been snoozing on his shins. He knew without looking that he was hard, uncomfortably so in his pants. The fire was blazing, warm almost to the point of stifling, and Hannibal was only adding paper tinder to fan the flame. “Ah. You’re awake?”   
  
He could feel sweat gathered under his arms. “What time is it?” 

Hannibal glanced down at his watch. “A little after midnight. I didn’t want to bother-- you slept very peacefully.” 

That was a word for it; Will shifted on the couch, gently depositing Saucisse on the floor while he sat up and closed his legs. That was two for two in terms of being caught with a boner, he supposed, and god knew Hannibal wouldn’t turn down a view when it presented itself. He ran a hand through his hair, crossing his legs. “What are you burning?” 

“Drawings I didn’t care for,” Hannibal answered, leaning back and crossing his legs in turn. Mirroring. “What were you dreaming of?” His eyes flicked down to Will’s ankles, pleased. Shining in the firelight. 

_Too familiar_ , Will thought to himself as he rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up at least enough to properly get himself to bed. “Branching into archaic forms of psychoanalysis, Doctor?” 

“Simply looking to sate curiosity.” 

All Will could do was snort, eyes back on the fire. He could tell the truth, of course, but that would violate one of the many unspoken rules of their agreement. He looked back at Hannibal-- poised, perfectly coiffed, impossible to knock off-kilter. That was one of the constants of Hannibal Lecter, the complete self-control; an unflappability that differentiated him enough from the rest of humanity for speciation. Will’s mouth quirked. Since the very beginning of their agreement, Hannibal had weaponized flirtation for his own amusement-- what would it look like for the tables to be turned? “I dreamt about you, actually.”

To an outsider, Hannibal would have appeared perfectly unbothered. There was no real change in him short of a momentary pause, a second of complete stillness followed by a slow reptilian blink. Will knew him well enough to understand shock when he saw it. Hannibal blinked again, before leaning back and setting his sketchbook aside. “And what are we to do about that?” 

Another of their unspoken rules, of course, was that Will would have to initiate. In a way he controlled every aspect of their little game, up until the moment he decided to finally give in. He stood up, stretching his arms and yawning. “Well,” he began, looking down at Saucisse, who looked quite put out after being taken from her spot on the couch. “Saucisse and I are going to go to bed-- you can do what you like. Goodnight, Hannibal.” 

Will managed to turn around and start walking to his bedroom when he heard a quiet, “Good night, Will.” Nearly five seconds-- that was how long it had taken Hannibal to reply. Will could feel his lips stretch into a smirk before he even made it to his bedroom. Unflappable, indeed. 

  
  


____

  
  


**Baltimore, Maryland**

  
  


The speed at which Zeller and Price had made themselves comfortable in Jack’s home was staggering. They had come to his place for a third time to discuss potential leads, and already Brian started kicking his shoes off and propping his feet up on the opposite chair of the dining room table; Jimmy ordered _pizza_. He was a few empty beer cans away from a frat house-- if they weren’t the only people he’d spoken to in the last few weeks, he would have kicked them out ages ago. 

There was also the issue of Hannibal Lecter. Years ago Abel Gideon had called him the Devil-- smoke. Impossible to catch. The description didn’t feel too far off the mark: looking further into the shell company had only brought them a whole host of dead ends, including but not limited to a few closed-down antique shops in Florence, a winery in Spain, a farm or three in Lithuania. If it weren’t for the cannibal ‘jokes,’ Jack would have called bullshit on the whole enterprise. 

Their motley crew had spent hours combing through any information they could, and on his fourth coffee of the day Jack almost felt like he did back at the FBI. Tired, tense, frustrated. So much for his great retirement. Still, they combed through IP addresses and anything else that they could glean on that lovely autumn evening, missing a picturesque sunset in favor of poring over their laptops. Some things never changed. 

Until Jack heard his doorbell ring. “That’ll be the pizza,” Jimmy sighed, standing from his seat at the table and stretching his back. “You really need to get better seating for this, I won’t be able to carry Zoe at this rate.” 

Jack leveled Jimmy with a look that was only half amusement. “I’ll consider that the next time I buy myself a dining room set.” He let his mouth curl into a smile regardless. “Go get your pizza.” 

And off Price went. He returned with a large box of pizza, apparently from a neighborhood place; how Jack was the last to know about restaurants in his own neighborhood was a mystery, but he still accepted a slice. 

When the doorbell rang a second time, the three took a moment to glance at one another, confused. “I guess I’ll get it, then,” Jack announced with a sigh, groaning as he stood up from his chair. He really did need to teach another self defense class, because at this rate he was going to go soft. He walked to the front door, figuring he’d find an awkward delivery kid holding out utensils or napkins they’d forgotten to pass on last time. Instead, however, he was met with blazing red hair and eyes that never failed to look through him. “Freddie Lounds.” 

“Jack Crawford,” Freddie answered smoothly, eyes darting for a glance inside of his house. “Retirement seems to be treating you well.” 

He nodded, before crossing his arms and staring her down. “What do you want, Lounds?” 

“I’m doing well, too, in case you were wondering,” Lounds replied, giving Jack a smile and a pointed look. When he only glowered and stared, she dropped formalities and got to the point. “Why are Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price at your house?” 

So she’d been following them. Jack felt his jaw set, glare only growing in intensity. He leaned against his door jamb, readying himself for a debate. “We’re all adults with a former working relationship. We get along.” Onto the more pressing matter. “Why have you been following them?” 

Freddie crossed her arms. “This is the third time they’ve visited you since you retired, and the other two have been over the last two weeks. I doubt you even spoke to them after you left the FBI.” She gave Jack a calculating once-over before looking satisfied. “Once is circumstance, twice is negotiable-- but three’s a pattern, Jack.” 

There was the slightest headache that formed in Jack’s temples every time he had the misfortune of speaking to Freddie Lounds, and even after years away from that fiery hair and sharp tongue it found its way back to him. Old habits. “I take it that you’ve been stalking me, as well? I’m a private citizen now.” 

“You are,” she agreed, “But you’re also an officer who retired in disgrace after the FBI had to cover up your orders for an extrajudicial execution, so…” She shrugged. _Shit._ He watched her drink in his newfound tension, and suddenly he felt as if there were no secrets with her anymore. There was nothing from his life that she couldn’t dig up. “I like to keep you on my radar, just in case. And going by the looks of it--” she glanced past his shoulder and into his house, where Price and Zeller were working at and under the table to catch a serial killer who had been presumed dead, “We’re ‘in case.’” 

No point in beating around the bush, then. He crossed his own arms, leveling Lounds with the strongest glare he could muster. It didn’t do much, but it was the only weapon he had at his disposal. His next words were slow, deep, his tone tailor-made to intimidate. Just like an old interrogation. “I’m going to ask this one more time. What do you want, Lounds?” 

She smiled, eyes sparkling in a way that reminded Jack of a nature documentary he’d watched-- a predator just about to pounce. “I want to help.” 

___

  
  


**Rouen, France**

  
  


Will had never failed to surprise him, and that stood true even after years of living together. Yes, there were plenty of evenings they had spent together at their fireplace, just before Will began to doze-- especially in the beginning. It had taken months for Will to fully acclimate to their sleeping arrangement, tied together as they were. More often than not, he would find himself beginning to drift off, eyes slowly pulling closed, only to jerk awake and rub his eyes back to wakefulness.

Hannibal had always found that earnestness charming-- more so now that he had it all to himself. Eventually Will had grown used to sharing a bed, to napping during the day when he saw fit; that trust had been slow to come, building with the same speed as a stalagmite, but still it did come. It came with hesitation; Will would give Hannibal a lingering quizzical look, as if he weren’t fully committed to his decision. Then, eventually, he decided to trust anyway. Hannibal had come to treasure that trust of his, to hold it close even as it spurred Will into a separate bedroom after one too many wet dreams. 

His keeper wasn’t a charitable one. Watching the slow swell of an erection in his husband’s underwear had been one of the highlights of the first few months of their cohabitation, and suddenly one of his favorite shows had been taken from him. It had been an exercise in many things, chiefly self control-- he could smell the salt of precome through his husband’s boxers. He watched, lit by nothing but moonlight, as a tiny dark mark at its zenith bloomed through heather gray. In the dim light it almost could have passed for a blood stain. All Hannibal could do was let his tongue swim in its fresh pool of saliva, wondering at the taste. He remembered the soft shift of Will’s hips as his dreams took physical form, as he reacted. To what, Hannibal couldn’t guess.

He could hope, of course. 

And hope he did, even as Will made himself comfortable in a separate bedroom, as they lived their lives as a pair of platonically married husbands. Hannibal cooked for him, cleaned for him, sculpted out of Henry Ingram née Will Graham a man fully reliant on his talent for upkeep. Should Hannibal disappear, Will would be lost at sea in his own home, because Hannibal liked it that way. They developed an equilibrium that gained strength with every passing day, and Hannibal knew when he’d first offered this arrangement that he could be perfectly happy like this for the rest of his life. 

Just having Will with him was enough. Building a life together. Living peacefully with one another. Sharing complete, comprehensive understanding of one another’s thoughts at just a glance. To walk through a sea of pigs with an equal. Yes, there were the occasional delights tailored to Hannibal’s interests-- the wet dreams, the showers, the soft, dazed expression on Will’s face every morning as he made his way to a fresh-cooked breakfast; but those were only secondary to the simple joy of spending a lifetime with the man he loved. 

If he happened to draw pornographic imagery of aforementioned beloved in the privacy of his own home, well, fire would destroy the evidence.

Regardless, Hannibal would be the last man on earth to reject a show-- especially not one so thoroughly missed. After a quiet tete-a-tete in front of the fire, Will began to drift. His head tipped back; his legs splayed open, just a touch, just enough for Hannibal to admire the lines of his body. This didn’t come as a surprise-- Will had slept poorly the night before, likely agonizing over whether to leave Paris while the life of Charlotte Reese spiralled further into danger. Hannibal had found himself quite content when Will had fallen asleep on his shoulder; he hadn’t anticipated a secondary nap. He hadn’t expected _this_. 

Arousal and fear smelled similar on Will. Hannibal had learned that fact at the beginning of their new life together, the very first night he had the delightful surprise of _watching_. That thrill never went away, never changed. It remained while that arousal-fear scent began to permeate the room; it remained when Hannibal could see, so slowly that it could have been a trick of the eyes, an old friend returning to full mast. The smile that spread on his face was equally slow. What a unique pleasure, drawing his own erotica from life. 

The sweetest sigh came from his subject, even as his brows knit together in discomfort. What ever could Will’s mind concoct for him that brought about such a reaction? For the umpteenth time he wished that he could just reach into Will’s beautiful brain; take a scalpel and pull the dreams from his grey matter, place them onto film for his own viewing. Hannibal sighed in response, pencils gliding along the paper to better render splayed legs. 

He spent the better part of an hour at this endeavor-- watching as Will sighed, rolled his neck, his hips, clenched and unclenched his hands at irregular intervals. His erection flagged for half an hour before returning, and some part of Hannibal wanted to toast it on its unexpected but _very_ welcome return. Perhaps Will was right in having them return for a vacation in Rouen. If it netted results like these, well, Hannibal would have to make good on his promise for this to be their weekend retreat. This opinion only further cemented itself when Will, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, his mouth open and eyes squeezed shut, let out a _moan_. 

What exquisite torture. Hannibal couldn’t have moved from his spot even if he had wanted to. No, he was an artist with his muse, and sketches flowed out of him before he could stop himself. 

There were limits to a sketchbook, however, and his own sadly reached that point. No more drawings, at least for now. No, during quieter moments he only let himself look down at them, at the Will Graham of his mind, memorizing every line and smudge to be wallpapered in one of the finest wings of his mind palace. Those sketches joined many others, lost to flame and time. 

Soon, however, Will would have to wake up; as delighted as he was to enjoy the sight of him prone and erect on their couch, he would have to go to bed proper soon. Hannibal burned his works of art, a personalized bonfire of the vanities. The sacrifices he made for his jailer were great. 

Just at the end of his sacrificial burning to his own personal Adonis, Will awoke-- startling Saucisse and gaining Hannibal’s attention. “Ah. You’re awake?” 

“What time is it?” 

Hannibal looked down at his watch, feigning disinterest. “A little after midnight. I didn’t want to bother-- you slept very peacefully.” 

Will scowled, brows bunching together. He was always at his least guarded like this, fresh from sleep. “Drawings I didn’t care for,” Hannibal answered. Now onto the more interesting topic: “What were you dreaming of?” 

“Branching into archaic forms of psychoanalysis, Doctor?” 

“Simply looking to sate curiosity.” 

His husband turned toward the fire, lost in thought. It was only one of many beautiful expressions Hannibal had been privy to tonight. In all likelihood Will wouldn’t respond, as he rarely did, but-- “I dreamt about you, actually.” 

The thrill from earlier returned, this time with enough force to render him speechless. He blinked, various questions flashing through his mind-- what was the context of those dreams? What had Hannibal done to elicit that lovely sound? Was this a sign of change in their relationship-- and if so, what shape would those changes take? How many steps were between his chair and Will’s couch, and when exactly could he stand from his chair and count them? How much longer were they to dance around one another, orbiting each other like two conjoined stars? How much longer until he could not only smell his husband, but taste him? 

He felt rigid. Perilously close to tossing aside this game of theirs in preference for intimacy-- Will’s mouth could lie all it liked, but his body wouldn’t. 

No. That wouldn’t be any different from losing, would it? Will would give himself up to him, a lamb leading its own way to the slaughter; not the other way around. Hannibal set his sketchbook and pencils aside. “And what are we to do about that?” He would let his jailer decide the next steps; Hannibal had already placed his life in his hands. 

Will stood, and Hannibal didn’t dare breathe. Finally. _Finally._ His fingers twitched. What would it be like to finally feel the velvet of his skin? What would the smooth expanse of his back feel like against Hannibal’s palms? Would he look just as pained as he did in the throes of pleasure as he did when asleep? They were mere feet away, moments from crashing into one another and making the most of the evening. All Will had to do was walk forward. To come to him. Will yawned. 

“Well,” Will began, unaffected by the tension he had stirred, “Saucisse and I are going to go to bed-- you can do what you like. Goodnight, Hannibal.” 

_What he liked?_ Hannibal felt his own jaw tense, a foreign sensation. Felt the desire to follow after his husband’s retreating figure, to wrestle him to the ground and take Will’s capacity for physical pleasure to new heights. He would have _liked_ to consummate their years-long marriage, to watch his husband’s face go slack in response to the flood of serotonin and dopamine Hannibal would have supplied him. He would have _liked_ to spread his darling’s legs apart with all of the reverence of a supplicant to their god, to introduce his husband to the countless combinations of pain and pleasure. 

He would have liked to feel skin against skin, to hear the snapping of hips against one another. To swallow down every sigh and groan that escaped from Will’s throat. To awaken adorned with bruises, physical evidence of the night’s ecstasy on full view in the morning. To kiss every inch of skin on his beloved’s body. 

Instead, he breathed in. Stared at Will’s retreating form. “Good night, Will.” So his darling husband had added a new tool to his arsenal. Hannibal would have to respond in kind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are! It's a little short, in part because I've been working on a fun little fic that has a VERY different tone from this one. Anywho, I'd love to know your thoughts on this chap! :D


	16. Escalations of One Kind or Another

**Rouen, France**

  
  


Will regretted his decision to be honest about five minutes after he left the room. Yes, it had been fun to be on the other side of things; to be the tormenter, rather than the tormented. But after the smug satisfaction wore down, the realization that he may have been too quick to speak settled in. There were a myriad of ways Hannibal could have taken that little tease, each and every one of them leading to something more dangerous. What if Will changed the rules of the game with one misstep? Hannibal would inevitably plan some kind of counter attack, some way to escalate the situation further; the only question was what he’d do. 

He rolled onto his side, letting Saucisse prop her head up on his arm. She sighed, and Will couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Stroking her back, he looked ahead into the quiet darkness of his room and let himself wonder. He realized that this was a bad idea as soon as he felt warmth against his back, and a hand stroking at the scar on his stomach. 

“You were very honest back there,” a deep voice supplied at his ear, unmistakably Hannibal’s, unmistakably a figment of his own mind. “Why was that?” 

Closing his eyes, Will considered that responding would technically be acknowledging that he was mid-hallucination. He also considered that that fact still wouldn’t stop him. “How’s the taste of your own medicine?” 

The hand on Will’s stomach brushed the scar, reverent. “Delectable. I’d take as much as you’d be willing to give me.” 

That was because Hannibal was still in another room, readying himself for bed, and Will was having a one-sided conversation with the air. A version of his subconscious that wanted exactly what Hannibal wanted. The flesh and blood one would agree with the other. How unfair that Will couldn’t be fully alone, even in the company of his own mind. “You’d take more. You always do.” 

Will didn’t need to see to feel the smile at the nape of his neck. “Nothing you don’t want.” The hand at his belly slid southward, and Will remembered his recent dream more vividly than he would have liked. He’d woken up before he got off. He felt warm breath at his ear. “What do you want, Will?” 

A facet of his own subconscious asked this as if they didn’t both know; Will couldn’t help but snort a quiet laugh at the absurdity of it all. Instead of answering, then, he rolled onto his back, touched at the hand on his stomach, and led it downward. 

  
  


The next morning was no different from the rest of the mornings he and Hannibal had spent together, except that it was. Breakfast had already been plated by the time Will left his room, and Hannibal sat at his usual seat, his usual plush robe on, sipping at what Will guessed was his usual coffee. Still, there was a heaviness in the air. Hannibal was the first to speak. “How did you sleep?” 

So this was how they’d skirt the issue today. “Fine enough.” He took Saucisse out to the garden to do her business, deciding he’d walk her after breakfast, and went back inside to tuck in. “How’d you sleep?” Never hurt to twist the knife. 

“Remarkably poorly,” Hannibal admitted, smiling in spite of the bad news. Will didn’t have to look up from his coffee to know his ‘husband’ was scheming. “While I don’t have your imagination, mine is strong enough.” 

Will frowned, opting against asking for more details-- he knew a trap when he saw one. “Any big plans for the day?” 

Hannibal shrugged. “We’ve dinner reservations for seven-thirty, but short of that the day is ours to do as we like.” 

That made it two days in a row without Hannibal cooking his own dinner; Will gave him a quizzical look, sitting back and crossing his legs. “Something special planned?” 

“Should there be?” 

God. It was like playing verbal tennis, trying to have a decent conversation without mentioning it. The tension hung heavy in the air. Will took a bite of his egg scramble (delicious, as always), chewing it thoroughly and swallowing. He took a long, energizing drink of his coffee, knowing full well he’d come to regret the next words out of his mouth. “What do you want to know?” 

There was a split second where Hannibal blinked. Considered the question. Then he pounced. “I’d like to know about the content of your dream last night.” 

“How Freudian.”  _ How obsolete.  _ Will took another bite of his eggs, letting the silence drag out-- he’d tell Hannibal, sure, but he could relish the opportunity to make him squirm. 

“It’s less psychoanalytical interest and more simple desire,” Hannibal answered, shameless. Will couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him in response. 

“Looks like we’re both being honest today.” 

“So we are.” Hannibal laced his fingers together and stared, waiting. There was a quiet intensity in his expression, as if some part of him were considering violence to force the answer out of him. Will didn’t doubt he was thinking about it. 

Perhaps more out of spite than hunger, Will took another bite, swallowing it down with coffee. “Breakfast’s delicious, by the way.” 

Hannibal remained as still as a statue, eyes unmoving. “Thank you.” 

Another few seconds ticked by as Will took another swig of his coffee, watching for any movement on his companion’s side. Nothing. Hannibal sat there, staring him down, looking for all the world like a snake ready to strike. Will finally relented, if only because the stillness was starting to become uncomfortable. “It was sexual in nature, but then again sex dreams tend not to matter that much.” 

“I don’t believe that we’re debating the efficacy of dream analysis.” It was a simple answer, but it held just enough impatience for Will to feel a small thrill of victory. 

It was childish and petty of him to keep dangling the answers in front of Hannibal, but still he replied, “We could.” The complete serenity in Hannibal’s eyes told Will that he was considering violence a touch more seriously this time. “We were in front of a fire, and one thing led to another.” 

“How ambiguous.” 

Will watched his ‘husband’ for a moment, before turning back down to his coffee with a shrug. “You know how it is.” 

There was a smile somewhere in the corners of Hannibal’s eyes. “I can’t say that I do, no. Please, enlighten me.” He finally moved, picking up his cup of coffee and lifting it to his lips. 

Aha,  _ there  _ was the regret. Will had been wondering when it would come, even as he felt his ears grow warm at the prospect of giving out details. “It’s-- not all that vivid.” This was a lie, and based on the amused gleam in Hannibal’s eyes, they both knew it. Will went quiet, staring down into his coffee. Black, just how he liked it. No frills. Seconds ticked by. “We tore each other’s clothes off and fucked,” he answered simply, hoping out of hope that a curse word might detract from the other’s enjoyment. 

It didn’t. “Sounds as if we had a very passionate night together,” Hannibal observed, lips brushing against his cup as he spoke. “We tore one another’s clothes off?” 

Hearing his words echoed back to him only made the burning in his ears worse. Will felt his teeth grind together. “Yes.” 

Hannibal took another bite of his breakfast, and Will did much the same, chewing carefully on the thin slices of chicken. It was good. He sipped at his coffee, just finishing it off, when Hannibal spoke next. “How did I touch you, then?” 

This conversation had fallen so far off the rails that Will wasn’t sure he could put it back to rights. He stared down at his empty mug before switching back to his eggs. After several silent minutes, he answered, “It was more kissing than anything else.” 

“By firelight?” Hannibal asked, looking away in thought. “It sounds as if your subconscious desires romance-- if you agree with dream analysis, that is.” 

Will smirked. “I agree with it about as much as I agree with the Four Humours.” 

In response Hannibal only hummed, setting his fork and knife down. “Don’t have to cut a person open to test this theory, though.” His eyes flashed toward the charred grate in their little living room. “We could replicate those circumstances, if you’d prefer.”  _ See what happens. _ At Will’s expected glare, he continued, “It’s been at least two years since you’ve known a lover’s touch; are you never tempted?” The surprise in Will’s expression was evident; what could it hurt to push it further? “I am.” Hannibal’s eyes flicked toward the table, imagining the slender pair of legs sitting under it. Imagining the toes on those legs curling in ecstasy. “With frightening regularity, I am.” 

Instead of answering, Will cleared the table and made his way to the sink to clean the dishes. 

  
  


___

  
  


**Baltimore, Maryland**   
  


“No.” It was the most vehement Jack had ever seen Zeller; he glared, eyes darting between Lounds and other men in the room, nostrils flaring.”No. Absolutely not. Whatever she’s up to,  _ no _ .” 

It was a less-than-stellar reaction to Freddie Lounds walking into the room. She seemed at least semi-prepared for it, though, based on the deep breath she took, the way her smile remained unchanged even as her eyes grew stony. “Hi, Brian.” 

This only forced Zeller’s brows closer to his hairline. “ _ No.  _ She’s not trustworthy, Jack, and why the hell is she even in here?” He paused staring Lounds down for a moment, before it clicked. “Who did you follow?” 

“That’s a great question,” Lounds answered, eyes back to the task at hand-- namely, the dining room table covered in sensitive files. A part of Jack wanted to push her away from it, make sure she didn’t glean more than he wanted to share. “Why don’t we all sit down and talk about this over pizz--” 

“Miss Lounds,” Jimmy cut in, head tilted forward like he was ready to scold a wayward student in his library, “You don’t have the best track record with the FBI. Why don’t you tell us how you got here before Mad Dog over there has a conniption?” 

Freddie Lounds took another deep breath, adjusting her posture until it was rail-straight. “I like to keep tabs on people of particular interest--”    
  
“You mean stalking. That’s what it is that you do, you  _ stalk people _ .” Zeller crossed his arms and planted his feet, the picture of stubbornness. “Jack, whatever she’s doing here, I guarantee you that it isn’t good. She’s going to dig into classified business and blast it all over TattleCrime, and then we’ll never--” he paused, biting his lips together to stop himself from giving more away. 

Lounds took this moment to pounce. “I’m offering my services as a journalist, and someone interested in a potential book deal.” She looked at Jimmy, then Jack, as if assessing who would take her side. Jack crossed his arms in response, waiting for her to continue. “All I know is that you three are meeting up here at Crawford’s house; what I  _ think  _ is happening is some kind of secret investigation, and frankly this,” she gestured to the dining room table, covered as it was in papers and files, “Seems to be proving my point. I’m working on a hunch-- I think that you’re going after something important.” She pulled a chair from the table and took a seat, crossing her legs. “With your permission, I want to write about it. Think of me as a resource, if you’d like.” 

There was about a moment of stunned silence before Zeller piped back up. “Pretty sure journalists aren’t supposed to inject themselves into their own stories.” 

“I’m also pretty sure that members of the FBI have to have permission to investigate crimes. Here we both are.” She shrugged, a small smile growing on her face-- she was right. 

Brian looked at her for a moment before finally turning to Jack. “Don’t tell me you trust her.” 

This was easy to answer, at least. “I trust her about as far as I could throw her,” Jack answered, before looking at the slight woman and reconsidering his words. “I could probably throw her farther, actually.” He sighed, taking his seat at the table. “But it’s not like any of us are ethically clean, here.” He looked down at the files, at the mounting evidence that Hannibal Lecter was alive and well, and probably taking lives by the hundreds. What they were dealing with didn’t play fairly. “If we were to work together, Lounds, we’d have to come to an agreement.”    
  
“Certainly,” Freddie replied, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “What are you thinking?”    
  
“You can’t be serious,” Zeller snapped, placing his hand on his forehead as if to stop himself from going any further. “Do you know how many people she’s put in danger for a buck? Shit, Chilton’s still--” 

  
“With all due respect, Brian, I never touched him.” She turned those cold eyes back to Zeller, daring him to speak further. “I published an article, per the explicit request of the FBI. Does that make your organization complicit in Chilton’s case?” 

A vein popped in Zeller’s neck, and he leaned forward, one hand slapping against the table. His next words were enunciated carefully, every syllable built to bite. “You assisted Abel Gideon in removing his organs.” 

Lounds’s expression only grew colder; her eyes narrowed, her lips furled into a little frown, and she answered, “I was threatened with my life. I acted in my best interests at the time, and I kept him alive until he could get professional medical assistance.” 

Brian scoffed. “You must have  _ loved  _ pitching that article, huh? Damsel in distress gets to be the hero for once? How much did you get paid for that?” 

The moment they hit personal insults, Jack decided it was time to step in. “Zeller,” he shouted, voice booming throughout the room, “Lounds. Enough.” That shut them up, at least enough for Jack to sigh and rub his forehead, hankering for a cigarette. “Now. Lounds. What are your conditions?”

Freddie Lounds sent a quick look Zeller’s way, smug. “I want full book deal rights. Simple as that.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs, waiting on a response. 

Price spoke next, bemused. “You want a book deal so you can write and publish the details of an alleged investigation that, if it  _ were  _ happening, wouldn’t only be illegal, but also possibly dangerous for everyone involved?” He paused, lips pursed; holding back a laugh. “Sounds reasonable.” 

This didn’t deter her. “Naturally I can keep you three anonymous.” 

“For about three seconds,” Zeller grumbled, sitting back down in his chair looking to all the world like a sulking toddler. “Do you know how quickly the FBI would suss us out? Presuming that we’re actually investigating anything. All you’ve got is a hunch.” 

He wasn’t wrong. They must have seen Jack considering these points, because Freddie turned to him with a particular gleam in her eyes. “I could always publish this posthumously, Jack. Think about it-- your own legacy, published for the world to see. Immortality in the public eye as a hero, for…” she turned toward the table, the files, realization dawning on her face. “For catching your personal Moby Dick.” She paused, incredulous. “Is this about Hannibal Lecter?” 

“Okay, one,” Jimmy cut in, “Just because you’re banking on Jack dying doesn’t mean that we’ll agree to this-- any of it. Whatever psychological ploy you’re trying, he’s not going to fall for it.” He looked Jack’s way for one nervous second, before regaining his confidence. “Two, I think you should maybe leave.” 

She didn’t even turn Jimmy’s way to listen to him speak. She kept her eyes on Jack, burning with a new ferocity. “Do you have evidence to suggest that he’s alive?” 

Jack smiled to himself, taking a moment to look Lounds up and down. He grabbed a slice of pizza from its lonely corner on the dining table, holding it limply in his hands. “I think you’ve got a very active imagination, Miss Lounds.” He took a bite, chewing and swallowing. “We’re three men who’ve reconnected after a few years apart. This is just…” He looked at the pile of documents, mind racing for a plausible excuse.    
  
“Dungeons and Dragons,” Zeller helpfully supplied, leaning back on his chair with a growing grin. “Well, it’s not classic D&D-- it’s more of a mystery thing. Homebrew.” Jimmy’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “It’s not heavily character-based, more focused on gameplay and puzzle-solving.” All eyes were on Zeller, disbelieving. “What?” 

Freddie leaned back in her chair, eyes on the files. “You’re telling me that these are game… materials.” 

Jack, doing his damnedest to maintain composure, answered next. “That’s correct. Just some… mystery game.” He glanced toward Zeller, desperate. “Need something to keep the mind engaged. Retirement.” He shrugged, as if that were at all plausible. 

She was no closer to believing this lie than she was earlier. She looked at Jack. “What are the rules?” 

“No girls allowed,” Jimmy cut in, lacing his fingers together on the table. “This is my free time, so I can be sexist if I want.” He gave Lounds a pointed look, as if daring her to respond. “Now, Freddie, if you’d please let us continue with our…” He glanced at Zeller, “Our table game?” 

It occurred to Jack that his companions were acting less like seasoned forensic scientists and more like truculent middle schoolers. Based on the look Freddie gave him, he wasn’t alone in that belief. She relented after a few moments, at least, taking a card from her bag and sliding it toward Jack. “Fine. When you need me, and you  _ will _ , you can call me.” 

Jack took the card in silence, slipping it into his pocket. “I hate to kick you out, but…” He looked at the files, already cringing at his next words, “We have a game to play.” 

“Oh, I’m sure the game’s afoot,” Freddie answered smoothly, standing up from her chair. “You have a beautiful house, Mister Crawford. Gentlemen.” With a nod, she let herself out. 

The moment the door closed, Jack and Price whipped their heads toward Zeller. “Dungeons and Dragons?” Jimmy asked, shocked. “Do I need to stuff you into a locker?” 

“Okay, College Acapella Group,” Zeller snapped back, pink in the face. “Rebecca got me into it. It’s not that bad.” 

Price held a dramatic hand to his chest, aghast. “I told you that in  _ confidence _ ,” he hissed. 

“Boys!” Jack bellowed for the second time, headache growing in intensity, “Please, can we just--” he sighed, setting his half-eaten pizza slice back in the box. “Brian. What is your problem with Freddie Lounds.” He phrased it more as a statement than a question, starting to feel, well, a bit like a teacher in a rowdy classroom. 

All the humor in the room bled away as Zeller dipped his head, biting his lips together. “It’s-- a long story.” 

Jack wasn’t impressed. “We’ve got time.” 

Zeller glanced at Price, and Price shrugged. “You were a little, uh, passionate about it.”

Brian was cornered, and going by the way he slumped forward, he knew it. “It’s…” He went quiet, staring off into space. “Technically it’s my fault she started investigating Will Graham.” 

  
  


____

  
  


**Rouen, France**

  
  


_ La Couronne  _ was just about everything Will had anticipated in a restaurant Hannibal had chosen: decadent, historied, warmly decorated with dark wood and the occasional religious figure littered about. The room wasn’t a surprise, either: it was private, large, and likely meant for more than two people on a date. It looked out at the street below, at _ L’Église Sainte-Jeanne-D’Arc _ , with its shockingly modern sloping roof and delicate glass detailing, lit up and glowing warm against the evening sky. 

In a word, it was fancy. 

It wasn’t the first time Will had been grateful for Hannibal’s choice of wardrobe, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. A waitress stepped in, announcing herself with a smile as she set down empty champagne flutes, a few different bottles for them to peruse. Will stared out at the cross just out the window, tall and metal and stabbing into the sky; Hannibal spoke to waitress, choosing the champagnes and wines and whatever else they were in for the evening. That was how they did these dinners, rare as they were: Hannibal would do the talking, freeing Will from any loathed social interaction while getting to gab and decision-make and establish himself as the most important person in the room. 

This left him with the company of Jeanne D’Arc, a semi-mythical figure he’d only heard briefly mentioned in school; he’d only really learned more about her during shared castle tours through Rouen, and later through books. Her cross pointed toward the sky, defiant. 

He’d developed a half-hearted fascination with her when he learned that her main impetus to joining the Hundred Years’ War came from visions; standing alone in her father’s garden, tilling soil with her small girl’s hands, he envisioned, when three saints came to her. They were so beautiful she cried. He could imagine her youthful voice ringing out to a jury of men who didn’t care for her beliefs, anyway. She died at nineteen years old, burned to ashes. Charged with the crime of crossdressing in prison, to avoid unwanted hands on her body. 

It was a familiar story, one he’d lived; one countless others lived, in different iterations. A pattern made all the more beautiful for its sporadic nature. He remembered feeling unsteady in his own mind, visions of horrible things fluttering behind his eyelids. If Will had lived during her time, he would have burned, too. Some things never changed. 

“What are you thinking about?” Hannibal’s voice was low, echoing against gray stone walls and cold stares from men who only listened to testimony as a means to an end. Will blinked. 

“Sorry, uh.” He ran a hand through his hair, turning back to find that the waitress had walked off. “Just--” he took a sip of the wine in front of him, gathering himself. “Joan of Arc, I guess. Hard not to.” He glanced back up at that lonely cross, knife-sharp. 

To his credit, Hannibal only seemed intrigued. “Oh? In what context?” 

Will went quiet, piecing abstract thoughts together into a sentence. “Humanity feels cyclical, sometimes. Unchanging, in a way-- ostracizing the other.” He smiled, looking up at his supposed ‘husband,’ remembering that he had written about that in another life. “Punishing them for their difference.” 

Hannibal, catching on, took a sip of his wine with a gleam in his eyes. “There are evolutionary reasons to do so, of course; ensuring that the pack remains strong, healthy. But this,” he glanced at the building across from them, solemn in the night, “This is a commemoration of humanity’s capacity for violence.” 

“Absolving themselves of their sins via architecture?” Will asked, lips twisting into a smile. 

“A cheap price for sins forgiven,” Hannibal parried, eyes soft. What would be the price of Will Graham’s forgiveness? 

Will felt the full weight of Hannibal’s eyes on him, just as he knew the double meaning behind his words. “A girl thrown into a world that had no place for her,” he mused, sipping at his champagne, “No room for someone that different.” He wondered how many had met their end at her hands. How many murders Abigail had been accomplice to. Two girls who did all they could, and still had everything taken from them. There was no monument to Abigail, though, no tangible memorial. No posthumous vindication, no glory for her guts. Just a pile of bodies and memories he’d rather forget. 

“Tragedies building upon one another,” Hannibal agreed, “Piling like sediments from different eras. Yet still time marches on. Flowers seed and grow on graves of all ages.”

In response, Will nodded-- looked down at his wine, and back up to the memorial. It was a kind way of bringing him back to the present, away from slit throats and biased juries. Comedies feeding on the corpses of tragedies, growing from them. Blooming. “To Joan of Arc, then,” Will smiled, eyes still touched with grief. “And the rest of us.” 

They clinked their champagne glasses together, a quiet moment in a sea of others, no less important for its silence. 

Dinner was eaten quietly, with shared glances. Will looked Hannibal’s way, amused at the pompous elegance of it, and Hannibal just looked amused. The food was very rarely the point for him, anyway. They were finishing their coffee and mignardises when Hannibal placed a hand on Will’s own, just in time for their waitress to return with their coats. Will only rolled his eyes at the gesture, accepting his coat and heading out. They’d have to get back to Saucisse soon, anyway. 

This didn’t stop them from enjoying their walk, however. It was getting late, enough so for the streets to empty, tourist season having ended months ago. Will stared down at the cobblestone, before up at stores, the occasional passerby. These were old streets, he knew, ones with a history that included blood and tears. During these times, with the streets sparse, yellow street lights pouring down on them, Will could understand why Hannibal loved Europe so much. He almost wondered why he ever left. 

At some point, he’d come to see these streets as home, too. Will glanced at the man walking next to him, breath fogging. They were two men who had just had their anniversary dinner, according to Hannibal in conversation with their waitress, and the honeymoon had never ended. It was embarrassing to hear, and still somewhere on the back of his neck he felt that flush of-- something. It was adjacent to embarrassment, sidestepping something else entirely. His shoes clacked on the cobblestone. 

They found themselves just a few hundred feet from  _ Le Gros Horloge _ , an enormous golden clock that bridged between two buildings on a street of the same name. It was a beautiful old thing, a burning gold even in the dark of the night. There were appliques, and golden touches, and rich royal blues around the golden sun at the center of it. Built in the 1300s, according to Hannibal, during their first walk around the city. Before even Joan of Arc was born. Will stopped, admiring it. How many centuries had it weathered? How many changes had it undergone, since it was built all those years ago? Surely it had to have been restored, to look that good. 

That was one thing that Will had to appreciate about Europe-- there was a connection to history, a desire to maintain and care for what others had built. Artists had a tendency to live forever here, in their carefully preserved works of art. Monuments built on grassy gravestones. 

Time marched forward, yes, but there was an appreciation for the past that Will could admire. He glanced toward his ‘husband’ as they made their way to the clock; to just under it, a touch more insulated from the cold. He probably should have brought his heavier down jacket; he would have, if he’d anticipated this. 

“Are you warm enough?” Hannibal asked, as if reading his mind, clad in his thick down coat, scarf, gloves. 

_ Transparent _ . “It’s a bit cold,” Will answered, springing a trap of his own. “I’ll be fine.” Goodness knew he had enough alcohol in his bloodstream to warm his extremities. The intricate dance steps of Hannibal’s thinking revealed themselves to him, under that great mechanical clock. “Just…” He stepped to the side, bumping just barely against his ‘husband.’ “Stay here for a second.” Hannibal escalated, as Will knew he would. He felt him turn toward him, wrap his arms around Will’s own. He reciprocated, stepping closer, lifting his chin to rest it on his companion’s shoulder. He spoke quietly, delicately, the smile curling at his lips unbidden. “Is this what you wanted?” 

It made sense. One nighttime lapse in judgment was one thing; it never hurt to add momentum. Plying him with food, conversation; going out and getting him just tipsy enough to give more, to lapse again. “Yes,” Hannibal breathed, caught. Unrepentant. 

“Is this what dinner was about?” 

“Perhaps I had some hope.” 

Will laughed, unable to help himself. He turned toward Hannibal, lips barely brushing against his ear. “I’m not going to give you what you want.” Sex, surely. No, he decided, he’d dangle that in front of Hannibal and watch him squirm. He’d enjoy the upperhand for as long as he liked. The rest of their lives, if he could manage it. 

Still, the arms around him tightened, and the chin on Will’s own shoulder turned toward his ear. “Hmm. Too late.” 

It was also possible that Will had miscalculated. 

The train ride home was pleasant. Saucisse tried something quite new, which was laying down in Hannibal’s lap for the ride, and if Will snapped a photo for posterity and teasing purposes, well, that was no one’s business but his own. They took a cab from the station to their apartment, after walking Saucisse awhile and letting her stretch her little legs. Even for traveling, it wasn’t so bad. Will could imagine himself like this, years in the future, making Hannibal as miserable as he liked. 

Will fumbled with the keys and opened the door to their apartment, ready to relax awhile. Ready to curl up on the couch with Saucisse and a book, letting the evening sun act as his lamp. It was domestic and easy, just like any other day. 

The door opened. Their dining table was visible from the foyer-- on it was an opened bottle of wine. Wilted flowers in a vase. Will’s personal bottles of lubricant, carefully hidden and ignored, now on display as some sordid little centerpiece. At the nearest seat was Andrew Christianson, sipping on their wine, legs propped up on another chair. “Oh, hey! God, you two took long enough. Enjoy the vacation?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, here it is!! I'm posting this now because holy hell I cannot look at it for another minute-- this chapter, much like others, fought me the whole time! I hope that Will's motivations come across a little more clearly this chapter. :D 
> 
> That being said, huge, HUGE thanks to NerdyMassi who was instrumental in the final third of the chapter! He was so full of wonderful ideas for Hannibal's little ~date night~ and my only regret is that I couldn't use more of them! Now more than ever I want to visit Rouen thanks to him. 
> 
> As always, I'd love to know what you think!
> 
> P.S. I haven't edited this so, uhhhh, wish me luck


	17. Some Questions Answered

**Paris, France**

  
  


Will had very rarely seen Hannibal stunned into silence, and in any other circumstances he would have taken the time to tease him mercilessly. He was in the same boat, however, internally contemplating how long it would take to step toward Christianson and get his hands on his throat. 

“Oh, just so you know, Uncle Artie knows I’m here, so like.  _ Maybe  _ don’t kill me if you don’t want the police swarming your apartment.” Andrew took another sip of his wine, setting his feet down. “Sorry about the feet on the chair, by the way, I know that’s not necessarily ‘good manners,’ or whatever--” 

  
“You could say the same about breaking into someone’s house,” Will snapped, setting Saucisse aside. 

Christianson pursed his lips, caught. “Touché,” he began, crossing his legs, “But you had something Artie wanted, and it’s just such a pain to bother with formalities with these things, you know? Apologies for that, legitimately.” He paused. “Anyway, your doormen are so nice! You should really tip them more often, it’s not hard.” One more swig at his wine. 

Will clenched his hand into a fist. It would take five wide steps to get to the table, he guessed, and one more to pull his shoulder back, throw his weight into one good punch. It would take less than three seconds. “So I gotta ask, where do you stuff the bodies? I’ve been looking  _ everywhere _ .” Christianson sighed, picking up one bottle of lubricant with a frown. “This is the worst I could find. Lube? What is this, middle school?” He gave it a little shimmy. “It’s still full! I thought I’d find skeletons, maybe a few legs or something, but--” he gestured to the bottle, incredulous, and Will guessed that if he really hurried, it might take two seconds to cross the gap between him. Pop his obnoxious, beady little eyes out. He’d use his thumbs. “Not even like a dildo?” 

“I’d argue that rifling through someone’s private belongings might be considered more rude than feet on a chair,” Hannibal supplied, the relaxed smile on his face nothing but a facade. If nothing else, it was good to not be alone in his anger. “Is this how you act as a house guest in regular circumstances?” 

Christianson laughed. “You don’t? Never went through someone’s medicine cabinet, took a peek?” He winked. “You sound like a total bore at parties. And in life in general-- Christ, I thought I’d find something kinky. A sex dungeon, maybe.” He gave the lube a thoughtful look, before glancing between the two of them. “Though that might be at the other house? In Rouen, right?” His face split into a callous little smile, all teeth. “But really, do you two even fuck?” 

Something in their combined expressions must have tipped Christianson off, because he only gaped, covering his mouth. “ _ No _ . That’s hilarious!” He glanced at the bottle once more, before eyeing the two men between him. Looking to Hannibal, he asked, “So you’ve only rearranged his guts in the literal sense?” He waggled his brows waiting for a laugh. Receiving none, he frowned and continued, “I found this in the dresser of the simpler room, so I’m guessing that this belongs to Mister Graham…” He tapped the top of the bottle against his chin, pensive, and Will wanted to take the bottle and shove it down his throat. “Meaning-- Hannibal Lecter, do you not J.O.?” He paused, looking to Hannibal with fascination. “Or do you do that with the bodies?” 

“You sound terribly interested in our private lives,” Hannibal replied, clasping his hands together behind his back. He looked cool, calm, collected. Will couldn’t help but wonder what recipes he was filing through in his mind. “Is there a reason for that?” 

Christianson set the bottle down with an impish grin. “Oh, I’m just nosey. Information’s such a valuable thing--  _ scientia potentia est _ , or whatever.” He paused, leaning back and draping one arm resting against the back of another chair. “Besides, I’m curious. How’d two upstanding people like you end up getting tangled up with ol’ Charlie?” He lurched forward and stood, wandering through the apartment until he came upon Hannibal’s faux Watteau. He stroked one thin finger across the frame. “She has a talent for ingratiating herself with people. How’d you get stuck in her little web?” 

Will started at the more pressing point. “She didn’t break into our house,” he began, every word slow to come out of his mouth, weighed down with silent fury. “Would you call that ingratiation?” 

“I’m more of a hammer to her needle, Mister Graham-- I’m a blunt instrument. I don’t hide, I don’t obscure, I don’t omit.” He pointed down at the sketch. “This is a fake, by the way. A Reese original. Or did she not tell you?” The smile unfolding on his lips told Will that Christianson expected shock. When he didn’t receive it, his smile curdled like milk. “This is worthless, you realize. The frame would probably net you more money.” 

Hannibal cut in next, the smile plastered onto his face unperturbed. “You seem to be quite taken with her. Is she why you paid us this unexpected visit?” He took one step closer, and in reaction Andrew pulled from his pocket a phone.    
  
“Artie’s got my location down, if you’re curious. The cops’d find you out before you got out of the city.” His smile widened a fraction, predatory. “We’ve got a good relationship with them.” He went quiet, pocketing his phone again and turning back to Hannibal with a cheerier expression. “And great job, catching onto that! You really were a psychiatrist.” He tapped his ear. “I can always tell when someone’s an active listener.” 

“Thank you.”    
  
“You’re very welcome,” Christianson nodded, glancing down at Saucisse. “Cute dog, by the way. What’s his name?” 

Will could answer that question well enough. “Fuck you.”    
  
Andrew Christianson frowned. “Huh. Can’t say I’d choose the same name. Creative, though. Anyway, Doctor Lecter-- you’re the shrink. Pick my mind. Why do you think I’m here?” He blinked, turning to Will with a grin. “You too. Profile me, profiler.” 

“You’re a piece of shit,” Will supplied, crossing his arms. 

“Too obvious,” Christianson tutted, “You’re gonna have to work a little harder than that.” He leaned against their dining table, smug. At least he was self-aware. 

Hannibal couldn’t help but note how delicately he’d maneuvered away from the actual question at hand. “You’ve a fascination with Reese, for whatever reason.” The actual motivations were still unclear. “Romantic, perhaps.” 

This brought a sharp laugh out of Andrew, as if he were surprised by the insinuation. “Too banal.” He lifted his hands to his chest, as if cupping a pair of breasts. “I prefer women with two things she doesn’t have: personalities, and tits.” He looked to Will, head tilted. “And you prefer women too, right? You were married to one. That’d explain why you two don’t fuck, but it doesn’t explain the whole…” he gesticulated toward the room at large. “Like, living together? Husbands? It’s a little gay, babe. Very much a sugar baby vibe I’m getting from you.”

Neither Hannibal nor Will spoke, instead choosing to stare down their unwanted guest. Will couldn’t help the way he clenched and unclenched his fist, fingers desperate to wrap around Christianson’s throat. It was Hannibal who broke the silence zeroing in on the one subject their guest kept weaving away from, “How did you get involved with Charlotte Reese?” 

“We were classmates in high school,” Andrew rolled his eyes. “She was the teacher’s pet, I was the charitable one who took pity on Miss Scholarship. It’s a tale as old as time.” 

Will glanced toward his ‘husband,’ before stepping in with a question of his own. “Why bother with the charity, then?” 

Christianson’s smile cooled, eyes growing icy. “Have you ever looked at a wild animal in a zoo? Wished you could take it home, let it roam your apartment?” He shrugged with one shoulder, turning his head to look out of their window. “Sometimes you just wanna take in something wild and see what happens.” 

“Wild things have a tendency to bite,” Hannibal added, following Christianson’s gaze to the skyline. “Did you want to see how far you could push a monster of your own? Own something unlike anything else you’ve had?” It would make sense, knowing what he did of Christianson: an upbringing wanting nothing, bathed in excess. Normal gifts would naturally lose their appeal-- this boy moved onto bigger and better things at a tender age. 

Andrew looked back at Hannibal, something in his countenance growing warmer. He looked at him like he’d made an accomplice. A friend. “Sometimes you just wanna take something innocent and sully it ‘til there’s none of that goodness left.” He glanced in Will’s direction, appraising, before turning back. “I suspect that you can understand the appeal.” 

A cold chill ran down Will’s spine as he considered the kinship that Christianson was trying to forge with Hannibal; the implication of  _ ownership _ . Still, he pressed on, trying to shift the conversation back on course. “And how did she get involved with your uncle, then?” 

Finally Andrew Christianson’s smile began to flag, the sharp edges of it falling. “Uncle Artie found out about her little  _ talent _ ,” he spat, gesturing to the sketch, “And the rest is history.” 

It clicked. The combination of animosity and affection; the awkward comfort they had with one another, that bizarre rapport Will had been trying to parse since he’d first caught the two in one another’s company. “It’s envy. You’re jealous of her-- ‘the teacher’s pet.’ ‘Arthur’s favorite.’” He considered further--  _ I have to say, Charlie, you really have a knack for befriending the most interesting people in any room.  _ “Us. She’s better with people than you. As moody and miserable as she is, she’s  _ still  _ better than you. And that eats at you, doesn’t it, Andrew?” 

In reaction Andrew’s perpetual smile grew into a snarl, his eyes gone wide. Empty. He lifted the sketch high, frame and all, and smashed it against the table. Shattering it. Glass scattered throughout the room, and in reaction Saucisse began to cry, huddling at Will’s ankles. He smoothed his hair back, regaining composure. “Sorry. I’ll pay you back for that.”

Will had made headway, and he wasn’t going to let this lead go. “Of course you’d smash it, it’s something  _ she  _ made. It’s valuable; a tangible representation of talent. Of  _ superiority _ .” The words fell out of Will’s mouth, now, every motivation clear. “She was something so small and pathetic that taking her away from her old life was a gift, you thought-- she should have been grateful. She should have worshiped you like a god.” Will stared his adversary down, understanding flooding him. Even as Andrew’s expression turned, as the snarl-grin turned into bared teeth buried in a frown, in fear, Will could feel it. He could see it. He  _ understood _ . “But instead, she impressed everyone you knew. She blew your expectations out of the water-- everyone else’s, too.” 

“She has one superpower,” Andrew replied, voice just barely unsteady, “And that’s ingratiation. It’s all she has. She doesn’t have talent, short of copying-- she doesn’t have  _ anything _ , she’s just someone who can twist you so far around her finger--” 

“The pitiful little girl who should have been your pet became your equal. You couldn’t live with that, could you? She was nothing compared to you.” He could see it so clearly-- the teen boy who only needed a friend, a confidant, someone he could rely on. An adult he could trust; a rock to help him wade through muddy waters, riddled with hormones, mental debris. He found someone weaker than him, guessed he could torment her the way others did to him.

But it didn’t work. “And then the teacher preferred her, didn’t she? You thought you were the favorite. Your uncle, too-- he saw her talent and recruited her. You were just family, something he had to take in, but Arthur, Arthur  _ wanted _ her. He wanted her in his circle the same way he tolerated you.”  _ Come back to me.  _

It was the first time either of them had seen Andrew Christianson even close to losing composure; his mouth twisted, his eyes went wide, and Will was talking to a miserable little boy, all alone in the world. A burden to everyone he knew, without the crutch of his family’s money. It was all he had. A tool he used as a scepter to command his classmates, a perfect facsimile of power and confidence. 

And the skinny little girl with nothing to her name took everything (every _ one _ ) he ever wanted. “And then she had the gall to leave you, too. The way everyone else eventually would; eventually did.”  _ Come back to me _ . “She rejected you.”  _ Come back to me.  _ “What are you going to do when you have her again, Andrew?” 

There was a beat of silence. Two. Christianson’s eyes went shiny, and Will could almost taste the unshed tears. ”I’ve got a hundred square miles of untouched land in rural Canada,” he muttered, voice rough. “Built a house there, smack in the middle. No roads. No way to get in or out, short of helicopter. I’m gonna keep her there.” 

“As your own personal pet.” Full control, with the added bonus of complete isolation; he wouldn’t have to compete against her for others’ love, not anymore.  _ A fitting punishment for her crimes. Elevating herself to his level. Leaving him.  _ Will blinked.  _ Let the little bitch try escaping him again. _

__

Andrew nodded and took a deep breath, wiping at his nose. “You’re not a bad profiler, I’ll give you that.” He nodded to himself, staring out the window. He was a rope pulled so taut he’d snap. “I gave her everything she could have wanted,” he breathed, “I still do. She lives like a little rock star, with her experimental drugs, and all her painting shit, and everyone doting on her like she’s fuckin’ Michelangelo. A little black hole of avarice.” Will narrowed his eyes, glancing at Hannibal.  _ Experimental drugs _ ? In response Hannibal only shrugged, equally in the dark. Andrew pocketed his hands. “I should go. If you ever wanna play psychiatrist again, I’m never against a good little bit of catharsis.” He gave them a watery smile, circling them carefully as he made his way to the foyer. “Oh, and also--” he picked up the Reese’s  _ La Méduse  _ replica with ease, and slid out the door. “See ya!” 

And just like that, they were alone again. 

____

  
  


**Baltimore, Maryland**

  
  


Jack had spent much of his career as something of a loose canon, using his large frame and larger voice to get what he wanted. And for a long time, it worked: he had made his career as the head of the BAU. He caught the worst of the worst. He lost his wife. He broke people. He learned, as late in life as retirement, to cool some of the fires inside of himself. 

Quiet was good. Quiet was calm, and easy with a little practice, and it helped the women of his self defense classes to finally start conversations with him once he learned to soften his edges. Retirement had been good for him: he ran a lot. He played more golf than he’d ever imagined playing while still in the force. There was a peace to be found in his new lifestyle, one that had gained him unlikely friends and ended in long chats with strangers over coffee. He had taken all of the nothing his anger had built him and made something of it. As days turned into months, and as one year bled into two, Jack Crawford changed. 

This was why he hesitated for five tense seconds before connecting his fist to Zeller’s jaw. 

“You dumb son of a bitch,” he snarled, pulling his old coworker back by the collar of his shirt, “Do you know what you’ve done?”    
  


Zeller, blinking quickly, answered a raspy, “Yes?” 

Jack’s brows shot up his forehead in furious disbelief. “Why didn’t you turn yourself into the Bureau? Why did you--  _ Why _ ?” He pushed Zeller back hard enough for him to stumble back and fall over his chair. “You ruined his  _ life _ ! He had a promising future, and you just outed the worst of him to the public. How--”    
  


Jimmy cut in, his hand only trembling slightly when he put his hand on Jack’s forearm. “Jack,” he began, voice low and suspiciously calming, “Before we do any more punching, or pushing, maybe we should listen?” 

This changed Jack’s focus to Price, even if it didn’t deter him from his righteous anger. “He tossed Will into the court of public opinion with  _ nothing _ . He convinced the whole country that an innocent man was a serial killer. Don’t tell me that you agree--” 

“I don’t,” Jimmy replied quickly, his voice still infuriatingly soothing, “But Zeller didn’t recruit Will to go after the Red Dragon. None of us are fully innocent here.” He paused, smirking, “Except for me.” 

Still recovering from being tossed over a wooden chair, Zeller added with a shaking voice, “How’s the weather up on that high horse?” 

“Delightful, thank you for asking. Now, then-- can we sit and eat pizza and talk about this like adults?”    
  


Zeller rubbed at his face, tears in his eyes. “I think my jaw might be broken.” 

Jimmy only gave his colleague a measured look. “It’s not.” 

Anger quickly dissipated into resignation, and Jack made his way back to his chair. He grabbed a slice of pizza, and turned to his least welcome guest with a shrewd look. “Talk.” 

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Zeller blurted, hesitating to sit down at the table as if that would somehow put him in more danger. “It’s just-- I was in a bad place at the time, and Freddie and I were seeing each other, and she told me she was a child psychologist, and…” He rubbed at his jaw, wincing at the slight contact. “I thought I was just talking about a creepy guy at work.” 

There was surprise to be had all around the table, but Price took to one piece of the story in particular. “You dated Freddie Lounds?” He gasped, a hand on his mouth. “That’s so…” 

“Yes, I dated Freddie Lounds. That’s the main takeaway from all of this,” Brian snapped back, before dipping his head, ashamed. “She was like a whole other person-- I thought she was…” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I thought. But I was wrong.” 

“Very wrong,” Jack agreed, fingers itching to clench back into a fist. His knuckles burned from the first punch, but that didn’t mean he was done. “Your gossip turned Will Graham into a celebrity.” Perfect impetus for Hannibal Lecter to spin his web. “He was a good man.” 

Brian bit at his lip, eyes on the table. “I know. I learned that later than I should have. But I know now.” 

Jack stared at the man he’d once respected so fully. Saw the shame in his eyes. “It haunts you.” Zeller nodded, head dipped down. “It haunts me, too.” 

“Sounds rough,” Price replied, taking a bite of his own slice of pizza. In response to the two glares shot in his direction, he shrugged. “What? I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.” 

Breaking tension had to be Jimmy Price’s hidden talent-- in seconds, he had Jack and Zeller chuckling, each of them reminiscing over old times as their eyes scanned the documents in front of them. Zeller was the first to verbalize his thoughts. “D’you remember when he’d look at a corpse and say the weirdest shit?” 

“‘Had to give you something better to do with that tongue,’” Price quoted from one case or another, voice low-- a poor imitation. “He had no idea how that sounded, did he? Like-- read the room. Right?” 

Laughter bubbled out of Jack, muffled with a bite of pizza. He chewed, swallowed, and answered, “He’d do it with higher ups around, too.” He still remembered the shock on Kade Prurnell’s face. The way her eyes slid his way, horrified. Just the image brought another laugh to his throat.

Brian Zeller outright guffawed. “God, I can see it. He was such a weird little man.” He pulled a slice of pizza from the box, smiling. “And he lived in that weird remote cabin, and he had all that mechanical shit-- like. It was creepy, right? Am I alone in this?” 

“You’re really not,” Jimmy giggled, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “I had a bet going on with Rob that we’d eventually find something there, and for awhile I won it!” For awhile. Until the Chesapeake Ripper showed his cards. The evidence. The bits of people that he’d taken, in so many more ways than one. “He was so smug when that new evidence came out-- I was half-ready to get a divorce then and there.” 

“Remember when Alana Bloom would visit him?” Brian added quietly, a wry twist to his lips. “I was so jealous at the time-- like, every single woman he came in contact with would just be wrapped around his finger. It was the same with Bev.” He shook his head. 

Jimmy’s smile grew softer, more nostalgic. “She really shut you up, didn’t she.” 

“She did. She really did.” 

There was a small stretch of silence as the three remembered Beverley Katz, fiery and strong until the very end. The  _ very  _ end. 

Jack spoke next, voice low. “I remember picking up Will from his house over in Wolf Trap-- going to him at all hours, just desperate for some damned answers. It smelled like a kennel in there.” They shared another round of laughter, this time quieter. 

“He always reeked like either dogs or fish, or something dead,” Zeller continued, resting his chin on his hands. The laugh that came out of him felt hollow. “I work in a forensic morgue, and I could still smell it. He was just an outdoorsy guy. Just some weird little guy who liked his dogs and fishing.” His voice went raw. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he continued, softer, “Just some weird little guy who tried to help people. And I sicced Freddie Lounds on him.” 

The room was different, a hole left where laughter had been. In its place were sniffles, shaking breaths; averted eyes. 

____

  
  


**Paris, France**

  
  


Hannibal had already decided on Christianson’s eventual recipe when he walked out of the room. Now, all that was left were the questions of when and how he would make it to his dinner table; and, perhaps, how to best convince Will of the many benefits of dietary variety. He broke the stunned silence left in Andrew Christianson’s wake by meandering over to their dining table, which their guest had unceremoniously made himself comfortable, and picked from it one of the two small bottles left behind. Sensitivity enhancing--  _ very  _ interesting. “I would have preferred to see these for the first time under different circumstances,” Hannibal admitted, “But if I may…?” he looked Will’s way, finding to his delight a flush crawling up his throat. He waited for fifteen delicious seconds until his husband conceded.    
  
“It’s-- I was at a place while you were in class, and it was, uh. An impulse buy.” Will stared at his shoes, out the window, toward the couch. Anywhere but Hannibal’s direction, anywhere but the incriminating evidence in his hands. “I didn’t really read the labels-- what if he put up some sort of cameras while we were away?”

Doubtful. They both knew that-- whatever interest that Christianson had held in their home dissipated when he realized that there wasn’t a shred of anything untoward. The man who had broken into their home was truly after one thing, and he had left with it. Arthur Ward would be satisfied for now, Hannibal imagined. For now. “I strongly doubt he has the capacity to set up some spy system in our home, but if you’d like, we can check.” Back to the matter at hand. “Would you recommend either of these?” 

The blush deepened into something redder, more obscene. “I trust that you can make your own purchasing decisions.” 

“I can, and prefer to do so with as much information possible,” Hannibal countered, “I tend to trust word of mouth, particularly recommendations of friends.” If he spent a long moment looking at the rosy mouth in question, neither of them found it necessary to comment.

Will held the silence for as long as he could. Shit-- Will was half tempted to hunt down Christianson himself, just to get out of this conversation. “It’s-- fine,” he ground out, cheeks and lips and neck aflame. Hannibal only blinked, owlish, waiting on elaboration, as if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. “We should check on Charlotte--” 

But Hannibal was determined to stay on one subject, and one alone, if only to see what hue his husband could become with enough teasing. “I’ll invite her to coffee after our next class. We can check on her then,” he replied smoothly, picking up the other bottle and examining it closely. “This is unopened.” The plastic seal remained. Hannibal lifted the other bottle close to his face, smelling cannabinoids and a chemical sweetness. “Do you favor this one?” 

“I haven’t exactly had time to jack off between babysitting you and apparently getting wrapped up with some more serial killers,” Will snapped back, running a hand across his face. “We could be in danger, Hannibal. Right now. And you’re focusing on--” he blinked, that lovely rosy color growing a touch more pink. Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder just how far that color went down his body. “Charlotte’s actively in danger-- he said he wanted to kidnap her and hold her hostage for the rest of her life.” So Hannibal was aware. In another life, he had considered something similar for the man before him: with the right distractions, the right enclosure, she could be quite happy. Whether Christianson was capable of properly providing for those needs, however, was another question entirely. “We should check on her. Now.” 

“You believe he’ll strike before the weekend is up? I was under the impression he was waiting for her to fall into his clutches.” It wasn’t an unfamiliar tactic-- but it required patience, a gentle hand. Neither of which seemed to be in Mister Christianson’s wheelhouse. No, he was a man who relied on the element of surprise. Idly, he began reading the ingredients of the used bottle; wondering how long it would take for his husband to--

“What do you want?” Not long at all, then. 

Hannibal turned slowly to his husband, letting his eyes linger on the unopened bottle. “You could incentivize me to hurry.” 

In turn, Will’s jaw tensed; he prowled the room, touching at the decor, fingers dragging along the dining table. He took the unfinished glass of wine Christianson had so generously left them, tipping his head back and finishing it off, lips stained wine-red. He strode toward Hannibal more directly, then, eyes roving over his physique. If Hannibal stood a little straighter, turned the slightest bit to ensure that his husband saw his most attractive side, well. Seduction was as much an art as it was a science. The coyest little smirk twisted on Will’s lips, and in return Hannibal darted his tongue out against his own. Ready. His fingers could almost feel the velvet of his husband’s skin. Perhaps the soft press of lips on his own. Will turned his gaze away for one slight moment; checking on Saucisse, who had made herself comfortable on a chair at the far side of the room. 

Then he shattered the wine glass against the dining table and held the broken stem  _ hard _ against Hannibal’s throat. “Incentive enough?” 

His jailer was as beautiful as he was cruel. Broken glass notwithstanding, adoration bloomed in Hannibal’s chest. “I suppose we can table this conversation for later.” Marriage was a compromise, after all. “Shall I email her, tell her we’re coming?” 

Will paused, brows crinkling together. “You have her email?”    
  


“Comes with being her professor, yes.”

Instead of replying, then, Will looked down, frowning in consideration. Yes, it would be the polite thing to do. But it would have been more polite to not gift them a painting that would drag them into her private business with dangerous killers. “I think she can handle a surprise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! I hope you enjoyed this scene-- you might notice that Hannibal may or may not be getting a touch impatient, just as some of the lovely commenters have been. You're not alone! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and another preemptive thank you to all of the lovely commenters! You guys make writing this fic so fun. :D I love hearing all of your thoughts on the coming chapters!


	18. Stories We Tell Ourselves And Others

**Paris, France**

On the seventh floor of one very cramped walk-up, Will took a moment to breathe and collect himself before knocking with no small amount of force on Charlotte Reese’s door. There was a moment of silence after his first round of knocking, and just as he started up again he heard a quiet, “I hear you, jeez, just let me--” followed by a small series of mechanical noises: unlocking her many locks. 

Opening the door, Charlotte looked, surprisingly, even worse than usual. Her eyes were red and bleary, slightly unfocused; she was bundled up in a mottled gray blanket, stained with all manner of paints and chemicals; and for the first time, Will could see her legs, spindly and weak-looking under an oversized sweatshirt. “What’s up?” she croaked, giving Will and Hannibal one considering look before ducking inside. “I’d apologize for being a poor host, but then again, you weren’t invited.” She huddled up on her limp mattress and stared at the two, waiting. 

Hannibal started first, clasping his hands behind his back in that overbearingly polite way of his. “We recently had an unwanted guest in our apartment; do you happen to know anything about that?” 

Reese frowned, squinting up at the two. “I told you to change your locks. Was the painting gone?” 

“It wasn’t gone until Andrew Christianson took it,” Will snapped, headache building from the stench of varnish, “After he rummaged through our things, and barrelled into our personal lives.” Hannibal gave him one amused look-- it went ignored. “What did you tell him?” 

Her frown only deepened. “What, was he there? He’s usually better than that.” She shrugged off her blanket, leaning forward onto her hands, one of them thickly bandaged. Blood still seeped through regardless. “Did you see him?” 

Will blinked. “Yes, and--” he stared at that bandaged hand, silently horrified. He could have sworn that Ward had scratched the other one, so why…?

“Uh, this was a work accident,” Charlotte clarified, casual as could be. “Fucked up with a scalpel, tripped a bit, here we are. Don’t worry about it.” She waved away the issue as if they wouldn’t ask further, barreling on. “Anyway. He was  _ there _ ?” 

“Yes, he was there,” Will bit out, still staring down that mess of bandages, wondering how bad the damage could have been-- why in hell she’d been fooling around with a scalpel. Why Andrew Christianson being physically present at their apartment mattered at all, in the grand scheme of things. “Does that matter?” 

Charlotte tried to run her bandaged hand through her hair, stopping as soon as the gauze hit her hairline. She sighed, rolling her neck instead. “Yeah, his whole M.O. tends to be secrecy-- he doesn’t get caught, that’s not his  _ thing _ .” She stared between the two, frown growing deeper. “So why’s he playing games with you?” 

Hannibal stepped in, putting a convenient stop to that line of questioning. “I’m afraid I have to ask, Miss Reese-- did you tell him about the painting’s whereabouts?”

There was a split second of surprise on Charlotte’s face, followed by a caustic glare. “Yes, I specifically gave it to you so they could steal it from under your noses. There’s no other reason why I would try and put it somewhere they wouldn’t expect. My end goal was for an art piece that I greatly admire and respect to be stolen and replaced by my replica.” The sarcasm was biting, and it was Will’s turn to shoot an amused glance at Hannibal’s expense. It went politely ignored. “No, he must’ve figured it out during the gala.” She sighed, wiping her face with her bandaged hand. “That  _ fucking  _ gala. I didn’t even know Ward was in the country.” 

“And how would he have found that out?” Hannibal prodded, clasping his hands behind his back. They had only interacted for a scant few minutes-- had there been some kind of tell between them? 

Charlotte pulled her blanket back around her shoulders, leaning to the side and reposing against a small pile of clothes. “I don’t make friends very easily. You two,” she shot them both an annoyed scowl, “Are an exception to that rule, thanks to your combined tenacity.” She sighed again, curling her legs close to her chest. “It’s so obvious in retrospect.” She stared into the distance for a moment, huddling even further into her blanket. “You two should probably leave. Now that he’s got his painting, he should be done with you.” She glanced at Will, before staring resolutely at the far side wall. “Provided that you stay away from me.” 

Will took in the young woman, clearly sick, laying in her bed. He looked at her home, the squalid little studio stuffed to the brim with turpentine, and varnishes, and so many kinds of paint that his head spun just trying to categorize them. The misery that hung in the air, just like the heavy smell of chemicals. The way she curled into herself, away from them, from anyone and anything hadn’t forced its way into her home. He sat down on his haunches, staring her down. “Do you think you’re dangerous, Charlotte?” 

She pursed her chapped lips in thought, stare still very much directed toward the wall. “I’d say that I’m dangerous by association.” 

This time, Hannibal and Will shared a quick look of amusement between themselves. She was more right than she knew. “You’re worried that if we continue to associate with you, we’ll be pulled further into your world,” Hannibal supplied gently, sitting down on the side of the mattress with a grace at odds with his surroundings. “Do we not have a say in the matter?” As he spoke, he looked directly at Will-- a challenge presented itself. They could continue the life they lead now, cushy and comfortable and monotonous to the point of strangulation-- or they could jump into this new mystery headfirst. Back into the same dark world they’d grown so used to, in another life. 

Will understood the implication perfectly. His nostrils flared, his eyes widened, and his mouth worked to form a response. Charlotte interrupted him before he could speak, however: “Nope. No choice for you, sorry.” She stopped, rolling over so all they could see was her back. The blanket that covered her slim shoulders. Her bare legs, pale and knobbly and so thin Will half wondered how she managed to even get about on them. 

“Charlotte,” he began, quiet, as if speaking to a lost dog. “You told us awhile ago that you were sober, right?” He watched her pull her blanket closer around her. A defensive move; she knew what was coming next. “Andrew told us otherwise. Looking at you, I’m tempted to believe him. What’s the truth?” 

She looked at Will over her shoulder with a glare that could have burned a hole in the wall. “Given that we’re strangers now, does it matter?” 

The answer was at the tip of Will’s tongue, pulled from him before he could stop himself. “It does to me, yeah. Humor me.”

Reese turned back to the wall, and they spent two solid minutes in complete silence. “It’s just not a priority right now.” 

“Sobriety?” Hannibal piped in, curious. Will knew that expression, knew the cold detachment that came with it. At best, he was amused at the drama unfolding in front of him. At worst, he was growing legitimately concerned. “Why wouldn’t your health be a priority?” 

With a sigh, Charlotte rolled back over, looking between the two until her gaze settled on Will. “I left the country to get away from him. From them, in a way, but…” She sighed, running her uninjured arm through her hair. “Look, Arthur paid for me to come here-- told me he wouldn’t tell Andrew where I was, as long as I agreed to a deal. I painted his paintings, he let me study what I liked, let me just…” She trailed off, placing her good hand over her eyes. “All I wanted to do was conserve art. Live with it, breathe it, let my life revolve around it.” She set her hand down, gaze on the mattress beneath her. “When I step into a museum, it’s like-- it’s like I can see what other people saw. It’s like walking into another world altogether. I can just step out of my body and into something beautiful, a world that’s been carefully, lovingly planned out, and all of the confusion, and bullshit, and the misery in reality just--” She stared at the collection of paintings leaning against her far wall, for all the world looking as if she were staring at the love of her life. 

Will turned, followed her gaze; saw her artwork in a new light. Careful planning, delicate brush strokes; painstaking construction, hours of agonizing over composition, of color choices, of every little detail and splotch of paint. More than paintings, then, they were love letters to everything around her; a shrine to beauty, and goodness, and the very best that the world could offer. Escape from pain, difficulty. A means of finding peace even as her surroundings shifted and fell out from under her feet. “It just melts away,” Will finished for her, seeing it. And then the realization hit. “Which is why you couldn’t give him a replica. You couldn’t let him take the original.” It was almost too heinous to comprehend: a devout follower, taking a relic from its rightful place. Placing it into the hands of a man who would keep it locked away, for no reason but his own gain. 

“Yeah. Exactly.” Which was why Andrew Christianson had wormed his way back into her life. It all made such heartbreaking sense. She sat back up, crossing her legs. “I’m never gonna get away from him. I know that. I fucked up my one chance.” She stared down at the floor, her one uninjured hand tapping against her calf. “So yeah.” 

“He also told us what he intends to do with you,” he added, stock still. Waiting for a reaction. “Do you know about that? It sounds like he has the means to manage it, too.” 

“What, the house he built?” She answered, stuffing one hand into the pile of clothes she used as a pillow and pulling from it a pill bottle. “Yeah, he sends me aerial drone videos of it like all the time.” She cracked the bottle open, taking two white pills and swallowing them both dry, making a face. “He’s had that planned for awhile now; the only thing that ever changes is how he plans on killing me.” She paused, looking up in thought. “Pretty sure he landed on asphyxiation, but god knows he’ll change his mind again.” 

It was like she wasn’t even aware how heartbreaking her situation sounded, even to two men who had abandoned their old lives and ran away together. Will stared at the floor a moment, doing his best to absorb Charlotte’s cavalier attitude to her own demise. “And you haven’t…” He ran a hand down his face. “Tried to get out of this?” 

Charlotte looked back at him, unfazed. “With what resources?” With her good hand, she scratched at the back of her neck. “He’s been tightening this particular noose for the better part of a decade.” She paused, gaze back on her stacks of paintings. “I used to think he wanted to prop me up as one of his ‘sculptures.’ Thought he’d changed tactics.” 

Hannibal watched this young woman, feeble and delicate, with her art supplies and the hunting knife she’d stashed away in her bag. There was a desire to survive in her; he knew that. Perhaps that desire had dimmed, quashed as it was by pharmaceuticals, poor living. Knowledge of what it would take for her to regain her autonomy. 

They just needed to add kindle to that fire. “You have two resources right here,” Hannibal answered quietly, watching. “Are we not at your disposal?” 

  
  


____

**Rouen, France**

  
  


The first winter in France came with it a feeling of unreality. Snow settled into every crack and crevice of the earth, until everything looked smooth to the touch. It was as beautiful as it was brittle, and Will hesitated for a few moments before he took that first step into his little front yard, half regretful that going outside preceded ruining something so pristine. Then he went out. 

Hannibal followed close behind, if a little more warmly dressed, and locked the door behind him. “How picturesque,” Hannibal supplied, breath puffing out in thick fog. “Not quite as pleasant to walk through, however.” 

“Never is,” Will answered, looking around. Enjoying the almost eerie quiet that came with snow, as if it devoured any sound that reared its head. Muffled it. Idly, he wondered if his mind could ever take a snow day for itself; stop rolling through tattered old memories of winters like this, holed up in his cabin with Molly and Walter. Any solution would probably end poorly, he knew, but it never hurt to dream. “So. Firewood, steaks, milk, garlic-- anything else?” 

His ‘husband,’ grown used to Will’s rote habit of pre-shopping repetition, only smiled. “If inspiration strikes.” 

Will snorted, the barest hint of his breath visible. “Yeah, well, better get ‘inspired’ for a few days’ worth of meals; I’m not sure I want to go back into this tomorrow.” A blizzard was coming. They’d need to stock up-- he was half-sure he’d see most of his neighbors in the local Aldi’s, foraging for supplies the same way they were. Even halfway across the world, people were the same. There was something about that, Will thought-- just as comforting as it was jarring. He was just as much of an outsider here, if not more. 

He looked to his alleged ‘husband,’ trudging his way through the lighter snow; not entirely an outsider. Not in a group of two. “Anything else you can think of for entertainment? Board games?” The thought was laughable, but Will knew his companion wasn’t above trying anything once. 

“If you’d like.” 

“We could get ‘Operation,’” Will joked, waiting on the inevitable puff of a laugh. He didn’t have to wait long. 

“Not afraid I’d enjoy it too much?” Hannibal looked Will’s way, and they shared one moment of silent understanding. 

Will considered the question for half a second, remembering the silly cardboard ‘items’ to be pinched from little metal divots. The awkward electric buzzing sound that resounded when his tweezers hit on metal. “I don’t think it’ll live up to expectations enough to worry about that.” Removing a ‘funny bone,’ a ‘broken heart,’ ‘butterflies’ from the stomach. “It’s more a game of pulling weird things from a man’s body than anything else. It’s not too realistic.”

“On the contrary,” Hannibal answered, quick as a whip, “Operations of that nature took up a great deal of my time in the emergency room.” 

In spite of the cold, and crunch of the snow, and the gloomy gray of the clouds above them, Will choked out a laugh. 

An hour later, they made it back home with four heavy bags of groceries (one new sketchbook conspicuously placed at the bottom of a bag), and one concerningly large bundle of firewood. As nice as it was to live in a little cottage in a little town in a little country, Will wasn’t quite sure the firewood would fit in their  _ quite  _ little fireplace. God, he hoped he wouldn’t have to go back out and buy an axe. Months ago he would have been concerned about such a heavy weapon in the house, given his roommate, but what was more ammunition in a house full of kitchen knives? He sighed as soon as they got back into their house, rolling his neck and stretching his arms. His hands felt numb. “I’ll get the fire started if you start on dinner?” He turned to Hannibal, expecting a response. 

Instead, he received that  _ look _ . Rare enough to stop him in his tracks, soft enough for Will to know the trajectory of his thoughts with perfect precision. It was so domestic, wasn’t it? Going out, prepping for a snow storm. Heading their separate ways to start their chores, preordained by habit and preference. The offer hadn’t even needed to be spoken aloud; they didn’t need verbal confirmation of their upcoming plans, not anymore. And Hannibal knew that. Knew that they’d grown comfortable with one another in the same way that ice melts. Glacially slow. So gradual and natural that Will hadn’t even noticed until he was in too deep. 

It felt like losing, somehow. Getting this familiar with a man he knew to be a monster, so comfortable with savagery that he’d put Will’s own family in danger. That same monster stared at him with such unabashed adoration that Will had to turn away, stomach twisting into knots. Bedelia had told him that Hannibal loved him; on a rational level, he knew that. On an emotional level he’d come to understand that love, wrapped as it was in longing looks, in fine dinners, in the cold bite of a blade ripping the skin of his stomach open like cloth. The buzz of a rotator saw vibrating its way into his skull. 

It was different, being the recipient of that love, unfettered by restraint; fear of abandonment. In the time they’d spent together Hannibal’s affection had grown more obvious and more comfortable in that obviousness. Every time Hannibal showed his cards, Will stayed. Unmoved. In response, Hannibal was growing bolder by the day; god forbid he ever confess. 

Will pulled the logs out of their packaging, finding to his immediate dismay that, yes, their small fireplace was too small for the wood. He dropped his head and sighed, listening to the ambient sounds of Hannibal organizing the kitchen. “You wouldn’t be willing to let me borrow a kitchen knife to try and chop wood, would you?” 

He didn’t receive an immediate response, and knowing exactly what the silence meant, he sighed again. Dammit. Would he have to go back out? “Would I?” Hannibal replied, and the tap of something against Will’s shoulder brought in a mix of horror and relief-- an axe. 

Will sighed for a third time; not that he didn’t appreciate the help, but generally speaking it wasn’t a good sign for a serial murderer to have easy access to an axe Will hadn’t known existed. “Where…?” 

“The linen closet,” Hannibal answered, “Hidden compartment-- it’s been there for well over a decade.” 

He accepted the axe. “Do I have to do another search of the house, or are you just going to surprise me with some medieval torture devices?” 

Hannibal only smiled, folding his hands over one another in front of himself. “I haven’t yet.” He wasn’t wrong-- they’d made it four months without even a murder attempt. It was impressive, in a way. 

“Doesn’t mean it won’t happen,” Will corrected, and they shared a look that was half malice and half amusement. “We can do a check tomorrow. And you’re showing me where you got this.” 

There was a private pleasure in Hannibal, now, mingling with that same amusement. “If you’d like.” 

Will felt eyes on him the entire time he chopped the firewood out in their backyard. He couldn’t see them, of course; the sun was just beginning to set, reflecting in flashes of red and white in the window, but he knew they were there. Every so often he’d glance up at the window, just so those eyes knew he knew. That he could look back. Even if if it hurt; even if the light burned into his irises, following his gaze in the periphery of his vision. He’d always look back. 

Once the fire was burning, and their bellies were full, they settled onto the couch. Hannibal was kind enough to supply some after-dinner port wine, and Will could just stare into the flames, let the undulation lull him into a daze. That feeling of unreality settled in again. It felt as if he’d wake up, if he just tried hard enough. Wake up with Molly wrapped in his arms, her fingers tracing the scar on his shoulder. Where Jack had shot him; where he’d been stabbed back in New Orleans; where Chiyoh, now long gone and living another life of her own, had sniped him. Those were the only scars he’d let her touch. He’d just wake up; walk down into the kitchen. Grab a few mugs for him and Mols, a bowl for Walter. Start on the coffee and cereal, from a beaten up old Keurig, from bottled grocery store milk, and boxed off-brand cereal. 

He would sit at their dining table and listen to the clink of Walter’s spoon against the bowl. The susurrus of Molly’s hands petting the dogs, the coo of her rich voice. He remembered plans for the day. He remembered microwaved birthday waffles, and whipped cream from a can, and syrup from a plastic bottle. All of the components were sourced from far away, to finally meet for consumption on their table. 

But there was a certainty growing in him, heavy, sinking into him like a rock in water. Nothing was microwaved anymore. Nothing was haphazardly thrown into their grocery cart, even when Will tried to toss in the occasional microwave dinner. It was all locally sourced, now; eggs from the farmer’s market, meat still disdainfully bought from the local Aldi’s, nutrition facts checked over and over again, sniffed for freshness. No more whipped cream from a can. 

“As a child,” Hannibal started, slow, careful, “During winters like this, we would tell stories.” He paused. “Mischa and I.” 

This caught Will’s attention. He looked Hannibal’s way, noted the way he avoided eye contact; staring into the fire, just like him. It was a small concession, but it was something. 

It felt intimate. “Yeah? Like what?” 

“Some stories from folklore; others from life.” It was a strangely laconic moment from Hannibal; sure, there were times when they didn’t need any verbal flourishes, could explain things from a word or two. But this was different-- tinged with a sort of shyness. “There was one that Mischa and I particularly enjoyed as children, about a prince who had worked as a servant of Satan.” He looked down at his hands, eyes glassy with memories. “Other stories differed in regards to Satan’s role. Some called him a ‘magician,’ or a ‘wizard,’ which in some ways may be more ‘correct,’ in regards to pre-Christian notions of--” 

“What happened? To the prince.” He was so transparent, right then. Intellectualizing a subject with heavy emotional weight as a defense mechanism; using academic speech and theories to obscure the heart of it. 

Hannibal turned from the fire and back to Will, expression hopelessly gentle. He knew when he’d been caught. “The prince became lost in the woods, and took refuge in a magician’s cave. He offered his services for free lodging, and the magician accepted on one condition.” He paused, and Will took that opportunity to set aside his port and turn toward his alleged ‘husband,’ resting his head on his arm to better listen. 

“And that condition was?” 

Glancing back at the fire in the grate, Hannibal continued, “So long as the prince stoked a fire for him, he could stay. It was the source of the magician’s power.” 

Will raised one brow at the connotation, unable to keep from smiling. “Sounds familiar.” Sure, fire wasn’t necessarily a source of Hannibal’s ‘power,’ but goodness knew he wasn’t above taking advantage of a good atmosphere. “What happened next?” 

“A horse helped him escape-- it was fairly common for animals to have magical properties in folklore. They were often able to engage in human speech, for example.” Hannibal stopped that particular tangent before he distracted himself with the details. “It gave him an ointment to dye his hair gold; had him light the whole cave aflame. Burned down everything the magician had.” He took a deep breath. “Then they took from the magician’s cave a looking glass, a brush, a riding whip. They were used to slow the magician down as they ran away; cutting the magician’s horse’s feet, growing a magical forest from the brush, turning the whip into a great river. Using the magician’s own tricks against him.” Another look Will’s way, soft and mournful and nostalgic. “He and the horse took service with another king. He eventually married a princess and lived happily ever after. An ending fit for children, told to children circling a fire.” 

So it was more familiar than Will had initially thought. It hit close to home, pulled at something deep in his chest. “Folklore’s interesting, that way,” He began slowly, gaze toward the flame. “It stems from oral traditions. Handed down over generations, told over and over in a game of telephone until the original story’s mostly lost to history.” Just blurred memories, threadbare from use. Creative choices made by each teller, molding it into something that may never have existed. “Eventually it just becomes a question of interpretation.” 

“And how would you interpret it?” 

Will snorted. “There could have been a different ending altogether. You mentioned pre-Christian religious beliefs: it’s perfectly possible that the magician wasn’t half bad.” He paused, considering his words. “In his own way.” 

This caught Hannibal’s attention, and his gaze fell to Will, all-encompassing. “I suppose you’re theorizing about an alternate ending?” He smiled. “The magician and the prince stoking the fire ad infinitum?” 

It wasn’t hard to imagine-- not with the fire in front of them, and their dead selves long behind. Will closed his eyes, more than comfortable where he sat. “Arguably to this day.” 

He didn’t hear any response; the hand in his hair was answer enough. 

  
  


____

  
  


**Paris, France**

The car ride home was spent largely in silence. Will rested his head against a window, and Hannibal fiddled with his phone, frowning down at it. After a few moments of this, Will gave his companion a look. “What?”

“Emails,” Hannibal sighed, placing his phone in his pocket. “Such is the life of a working man.” 

Will huffed a laugh, reaching his foot across the back of the car to give his roommate a little kick. They both knew Hannibal had a choice in the matter; he just liked playing the martyr. “Approving an administrative leave?” 

“Already approved,” Hannibal answered, pulling up the relevant email and flashing his phone toward Will. “As far as my class is concerned, she’s on sick leave.” It wouldn’t be a challenge for Charlotte’s classmates to believe that she needed medical attention, not with her general sickly visage. They could make arrangements to make up any missed courses during their upcoming break. Yes, she would of course be missed, and the both she and the rest of the class would lose out on her being there, but such were the sacrifices one had to make to escape certain death. Perhaps she would have more interesting points to make once sober. 

Sure, detox and doctoral programs didn’t often mix well, but neither did substance abuse with coursework. She was to have one week off, to be spent at a highly rated detox facility just outside of Paris, followed by twice-weekly intensive outpatient therapy for the next six months. With luck and persistence, Charlotte Reese could turn a new page in life. 

There would only be two further thorns in her side, to be dealt with using slightly less orthodox therapies; but Hannibal was patient. Will, on the other hand, was outright happy: as miserably as they day had gone, it could at least end on a positive note. Yes, Andrew Christianson would need to be dealt with, and Will was half-sure he’d hunt him down and skewer the man himself; but as awful as things were, there was an opportunity for them to get better. To put things to right. 

Will had always been handy: he could take a house, or a car, or a boat, and he could fiddle and dawdle and experiment until he had a fully functioning machine. There was a satisfaction, using his hands and mind in tandem to resolve an issue. To take something broken down and miserable and rebuild it into something beautiful. Taking painstaking care to ensure that something shaking and rumbling and falling apart was rehabilitated into its former glory. He could imagine that Charlotte felt roughly the same way with her paintings: to scrub and work and stare at something until it regained its old luminosity. 

He had that satisfaction with Saucisse, watching her go from a cowering little animal into an outright terror-- in a good way. He had it when he cleaned Winston’s fur the night he found him, got him warm and comfortable and acclimated to the rest of the pack. When he’d cracked Walter, at first unsure and cautious around him. 

Will was a fixer. It was an integral part of him, built into who he was; in boatyards, in Wolf Trap, in Quantico. He fixed things. He helped. 

He turned to Hannibal just before he stepped out of the cab, giving him a quick once over. Considering. 

Neither of them were perfect. Neither of them were ‘good’ men. But maybe they could take the broken down wreck of their lives and their personalities, and turn it into something decent. And that decentness could start with getting some PhD candidate kid sober. 

There was a satisfaction there, one that melted into the marrow of his bones. He wasn’t a good man-- he’d long ago given up that goal. But he could strive for decent. Maybe he could be decent. 

They went inside, took Saucisse out; readied themselves for bed. Will slept peacefully. 

Hannibal stayed up, pouring himself a nice white wine and poring over the coded email he’d received from a reputable charity, notably funded by Arthur Ward. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo here it is! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!! It fought me the whole way through, and I was very (VERY) tempted to just give up and make it half-and-half in terms of scenes, haha. I'm a bit tempted to make a chill domestic comedy series about the boys' time together during those first two years in Rouen; what would you think? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D
> 
> EDIT: Due to some personal issues cropping up, I may have to take a hiatus on this fic after the next chapter or two. I'm so so so sorry to do this, but sadly I've had a major family emergency happen, meaning that I need to move along the process of moving ASAP.


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